“Roberts,” I exclaimed, “I want you to tell me something. Does my wife use any carmine to give artificial colour to her cheeks?”
“Oh, no, sir,” the girl assured me. “Madame is very averse to the use of such things. Once or twice, when she has been going out at night, and looked unusually pale, I have suggested a little additional colour, but she has always refused.”
“Did she have any rouge or anything of that sort in her possession?” I inquired.
“No, sir, I am quite certain she hadn’t.”
“Why are you so confident?”
“Because only the other day, when I was ill with a sick headache, madame urged me to use some colour, as my face was so pale. Visitors were coming, she said, and she didn’t want me to look like a ghost. I told her that I had no carmine, and she remarked that she had none, therefore nothing could be done.”
“When did my wife pack those two trunks she took with her this evening?”
“Last Monday, sir,” the girl answered, slowly twisting her befrilled apron in her hands. “She received a note by boy-messenger, and immediately set about packing the boxes.”
“Did she tell you anything?” I asked, adding confidentially, “I have reason to believe that my wife has left us, therefore anything you tell me may assist me in tracing her.”
The girl glanced at me in genuine surprise.