The prim voice of the trim maid said, “Captain Melun.”
Westerham gathered himself together with a laugh. It was rather like the star situation of a highly-coloured melodrama.
“If Mme. Estelle will pardon the phrase,” he said. “Speak of the devil——” He stopped short, shrugged his shoulders, and made a little bow towards Melun.
For his part, the captain was entirely without embarrassment, having been warned by the maid that Westerham was with Madame.
“Quite so,” he said. His look, however, was so vicious that Westerham had some inclination to stay and see that Mme. Estelle did not suffer physically as the result of his call. He reflected, however, that Mme. Estelle was evidently a brave woman and Melun a cowardly man.
It was, therefore, with an easy mind on this score that he stepped forward and held out his hand to Madame.
“Thank you very much,” he said, “for an exceedingly pleasant, agreeable hour. I hope that you will allow me to have the pleasure of calling again.”
Madame bowed and took his hand. Her own was clammy and wet.
To Melun, Westerham only nodded. The more he dealt with this man the more he regarded him as a lackey to be ordered here and there.
“I trust,” he said, and there was an undertone of command in his voice, “that I shall see you at the hotel to-night.”