“Then you did not stop in London to ask if there were any letters at your bankers’?”
“No; were there any?”
“There was one from me—or at least written at my request.”
“Ha!”
Sir Simon looked up, full of curiosity. Franceline feared she was in the way of some explanation, so made an excuse to leave the room about some tisane it was time for her father to take.
“You must be more puzzled
than ever now to know why I refused to let my pockets be examined that night,” said M. de la Bourbonais, resorting to his old trick of fixing his spectacles to hide his shyness.
“Why was it?” said Sir Simon, pulling out his cigar-case, and carefully selecting one of the choice Havanas, as if he had the remotest intention of lighting it; it was only an excuse not to have to look at Raymond.
“You may remember that there were little pâtés de foie gras at dinner; they looked like petits pains?”
“I remember it perfectly; and excellent they were. I had just got the recipe from the Frères Provençeaux; it was the first time Dorel had ever made them. Well?”