“No, no, mademoiselle,” Hugh protested, laughing.
“But I mean it. Il Passero is a real gentleman—but—maquiller son truc, and he is marvellous. When he exercises his wonderful talent and forms a plan it is always flawless.”
“Everyone seems to hold him in high esteem. I have never met him,” Hugh remarked.
“He was in Genoa on the day that I arrived. Curious that he did not call and see Beppo. I lunched with him at the Concordia, and he paid me five thousand francs, which he owed me. He has gone to London now with his ecrache-tarte.”
“What is that, pray?”
“His false passport. He has always a good supply of them for anyone in need of one. They are printed secretly in Spain. But m’sieur,” she added, “you are not of our world. You are in just a little temporary trouble. Over what?”
In reply he was perfectly frank with her. He told her of the suspicion against him because of the affair of the Villa Amette.
“Ah!” she replied, her manner changing, “I have heard that Mademoiselle was shot, but I had no idea that you had any connexion with that ugly business.”
“Yes. Unfortunately I have. Do you happen to know Yvonne Ferad?”
“Of course. Everyone knows her. She is very charming. Nobody knows the truth.”