“A lady—Mademoiselle de Foville. You remember her in Brussels, don’t you?”
“Mademoiselle de Foville!” I echoed. The denunciation of her as a secret agent instantly flashed through my mind.
“Yes, you were extremely friendly with her in Brussels,” he went on. “Don’t you recollect that you introduced me to her one evening at an al-fresco concert in the Vauxhall Gardens, where we sat together for quite a long time chatting?”
“I remember distinctly,” I responded. Every detail of that balmy summer night in those gaily illuminated gardens came back to me in that moment. I loved Yolande in those long-past days. “And what did Kaye want to know regarding her?”
“He asked me whether I had ever met her, and I told him that you had once introduced us.”
“Well?”
“Oh, nothing much else. He remarked how very charming she was—a verdict in which we both agreed. Have you seen her lately?”
I hesitated for a moment.
“Yes, she’s here, in Paris.”
He bent forward quickly, regarding me curiously.