So Madame rang the bell, gave her orders, and the tea came in.
It was not till they were alone again and fairly certain of not being interrupted that Westerham went straight to the point.
“Madame,” he said, and his tone was formal—so formal that he paused for a moment to be amused at himself; he might have been a family solicitor about to talk business with a difficult client.
“Whatever they may have been to you,” he continued, “the last few days have meant much to me. Possibly you are aware of how I made Captain Melun's acquaintance.”
Madame pursed up her mouth and smiled. “I can guess,” she said; “but, of course, versions differ.”
Westerham's heart gave a little bound of triumph. After all, this woman was not wholly sunk in admiration of the gallant captain.
“Never mind about the versions,” he said; “we met. Without attempting to make an ex-parte statement, I may say that I practically foisted myself upon Melun. I think I may even go so far as to say that I compelled him to reveal himself to me in his most unpleasant light, and also to introduce to me various of his friends. You will, of course, pardon my including you in that number.”
Making a bow that was half a mock, Madame smiled—not altogether a pleasant smile.
“Les affaires sont les affaires,” said Madame. “Let us be strictly businesslike. Allow me to put the matter as I think you should have put it had you been entirely plain. Do you”—her face grew a little hard again—“blackmail the blackmailer?”
“To be perfectly honest,” said Westerham, “I do.”