“No; I have decided not to go. It is too late.”
“Why too late? Are you fearful M. de Maxwell may have wearied waiting for you?”
“Monsieur, your words are an insult! If this be all you have to say to me, I beg you will let me return to the house.”
“Not so fast, madame. I have a question or two yet which require to be answered, unless you prefer I should put them before my mother and sister. No? Then will you tell me who this boy Christophe really is? From his first appearance below there I was much puzzled why M. de Maxwell should have taken so unusual an interest in him. He was as jealous of the boy's liking for me as a doting mother could be, and was more distressed over his capture than many a father would have been over the loss of his son.”
“Monsieur,” I answered, trying to conceal my alarm, “M. de Maxwell lodged for some time in London in the house of this boy's mother, my waiting-woman, Lucy Routh. Surely his meeting again with the lad he knew as a child will explain his interest.”
“Indeed? And may I ask when it was that he lodged with this convenient waiting-woman?” he said, with a sneer that set my blood boiling.
“It was ten years ago, monsieur. Why do you ask me these questions?”
“Because I wish to try a small problem in calculation. I was rude enough to hazard a guess at your age the first time we came to an understanding. Perhaps it was ungallant, but still, it remains. I said then, you were 'of a certain age,' but now, to be exact, we will say you are twenty-seven, perhaps twenty-six. This boy in whom such a paternal interest was displayed must be fifteen or sixteen. No, that will not adjust itself. Forgive my thinking out loud.”
“Monsieur, this is intolerable! What is it you wish to know?”
“Simply if M. de Maxwell was acquainted with this paragon of waiting-women before he lodged with her ten years ago?”