“I came to tell you all about the ball,” she said, pouting. “I was introduced to a most pleasant man named Wolf, and danced with him several times.”
“Wolf!” I cried quickly. “Rodolphe Wolf?”
“That was his name. He was dark, about forty, with a small pointed black beard. Do you know him?”
“Wolf!” I repeated; then, suddenly recovering from the surprise she had caused me by uttering that name, I answered carelessly: “Perhaps it may be the same man I knew slightly some years ago.”
“We had awfully good fun. He is so amusing, but seems quite a stranger in Paris.”
I smiled inwardly. Rodolphe Wolf a stranger in Paris! The thought was amusing.
“And what was your conversation about?” I inquired of her, smiling pleasantly the while.
“You want to know whether he flirted with me, Mr Ingram?” she laughed mischievously. “I know you of old. It really isn’t fair.”
“He said nothing to you about your father, or about the composition of his staff?” I inquired eagerly.
“Nothing.”