“Yes,” she replied, “he is in Paris.”
I was amazed at her nonchalance.
“Has he told you nothing?”
“Perhaps Sir Marcus Ordeyne would like to see his letter,” she said, ironically.
“You know perfectly well that I would not read it,” said I.
Judith laughed again, and rolled her handkerchief into a little ball between her nervous fingers.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I like to see the grand seigneur in you now and then. It puts me in mind of happier days. But about Pasquale—the only thing he tells me is that he is not able to execute a commission for me. He told me on the night he drove me home that he was going to Paris, and I asked him to get me some cosmetic. Carmine Badouin, if you want to know. I have got to rouge now before I am fit to be seen in the street. I am quite frank about it.”
“Then you know nothing of Carlotta?” I cried.
“Carlotta?”
“She eloped with that double-dyed, damned, infernal villain, the day after I saw you.”