And he fished from the side of his chair, and held up by the tip of a monstrous heel, the most audacious, high-instepped, red satin slipper I ever saw.
I eyed the thing with profound disgust. I would have given a hundred pounds for it to have vanished. In its red satin essence it was reprehensible, and in its feminine assertion it was compromising. How did it come there? I conjectured that Carlotta must have been trespassing in the drawing-room and dropped it, Cinderella-like, in her flight, when she heard me enter the house before dinner.
Pasquale held it up and regarded me quizzically. I pretend to no austerity of morals; but a burglar unjustly accused of theft suffers acuter qualms of indignation than if he were a virtuous person. I regretted not having asked Pasquale to dinner at the club. I particularly did not intend to explain Carlotta to Pasquale. In fact, I see no reason at all for me to proclaim her to my acquaintance. She is merely an accident of my establishment.
I rose and rang the bell.
“That slipper,” said I, “does not belong to me, and it certainly ought not to be here.”
Pasquale surrendered it to my outstretched hand.
“It must fit a remarkably pretty foot,” said he.
“I assure you, my dear Pasquale,” I replied dryly, “I have never looked at the foot that it may fit.” Nor had I. A row of pink toes is not a foot.
“Stenson,” said I, when my man appeared, “take this to Miss Carlotta and say with my compliments she should not have left it in the drawing-room.”
Stenson, thinking I had rung for whisky, had brought up decanter and glasses. As he set the tray upon the small table, I noticed Pasquale look with some curiosity at my man’s impassive face. But he said nothing more about the slipper. I poured out his whisky and soda. He drank a deep draught, curled up his swaggering moustache and suddenly broke into one of his disconcerting peals of laughter.