“You have to stay here until to-morrow,” she said, when we had begun our meal—the cooking was excellent, and the wine was above reproach.
“And, until then, you are under my supervision. Those are my orders.”
“Your orders, received from whom—eh?” I asked.
“Mademoiselle Thorold wishes it.”
“Were we brought here yesterday, or when?” Faulkner asked presently.
“About two o’clock this morning.”
“And what was this grim joke?”
“That I may not tell you, m’sieur,” she replied. “Indeed, I couldn’t tell you—for I don’t know. Miss Thorold knows.”
“Who lives here usually?” I asked. “The Baronne?”
“She is rarely here. But that is enough. I cannot answer more questions. Is there anything else that I can get you?”