So Hugh rang off and crossed the hall, little dreaming that the well-dressed Frenchman had been highly interested in his questions.
Half an hour later he went along to the Metropole, where he had an engagement to lunch with Dorise and her mother.
When they met, however, Lady Ranscomb exclaimed:
“Why, Hugh, you look very pale. What’s the matter?”
“Oh, nothing,” he laughed forcedly. “I’m not very bright to-day. I think it was the sirocco of yesterday that has upset me a little, that’s all.”
Then, while they were seated at table, Dorise suddenly exclaimed:
“Oh! do you know, mother, that young French lady over yonder, Madame Jacomet, has just told me something. There’s a whisper that the mysterious woman, Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo, was shot during the night by a discarded lover!”
“Shot!” exclaimed Lady Ranscomb. “Dear me! How very dreadful. What really happened?”
“I don’t know. Madame Jacomet was told by her husband, who heard it in Ciro’s this morning.”
“How terrible!” remarked Hugh, striving to remain calm.