“Very intimately,” said Jeanne.
The Intelligence officer made a note or two and smiled pleasantly—but Jeanne could have struck him for daring to smile. “You had every reason for thinking him a man of honour?”
“What’s the good of asking her that, Smithers?” Captain Willoughby interrupted in English. “Haven’t I given you my word? The man’s a mysterious little devil, but any fool can see that he’s a gentleman.”
“What do you say?” Jeanne asked tensely.
“Je parle français très peu,” replied Captain Willoughby with an air of regret.
Smithers explained. “Monsieur le Capitaine says that he guarantees the honesty of the soldier, Trevor.”
Jeanne flashed, rigid. “Who could doubt it, monsieur? He was a gentleman, a fils de famille, of the English aristocracy.”
“Excuse me for a moment,” said Smithers.
He went out. Jeanne, uncomprehending, sat silent. Captain Willoughby, cursing an idiot education, composed in his head a polite French sentence concerning the weather, but before he had finished Smithers reappeared with a strange twisted packet in his hand. He held it out to Jeanne.
“Mademoiselle, do you recognize this?”