Greatly puzzled, the Parson returned to London. I nevertheless remained in Italy until May, when back again I found myself, one bright afternoon about five o’clock, descending from the car outside the house in Toddington Terrace, my intention being to pay a call upon Madame Demidoff.
My ring was answered by a neat maidservant in smart cap and apron.
Next instant we stared at each other in speechless amazement. It was Elise!
Utterly confused, her face first flushed scarlet, and then blanched.
“You—you want to see Madame,” she managed to stammer in her broken English. “She isn’t at home!”
Beyond her, in the hall, stood the tall figure of a man, whom I at once recognised as the mysterious Wilkinson.
“But, mademoiselle,” I said, smiling, yet wondering, the motive of that masquerade. “I called also to see you.”
She drew herself up in an instant, replying with some hauteur:
“I think, m’sieur, you have made some mistake. We have never met before—to my knowledge.”
Her reply staggered me.