“Exactly.” His smile was rueful.
Ellen’s expression became rapt. Lighting a cigarette, she leaned back and puffed at it furiously.
“Who could it have been?” she helped herself to the artichokes. Then her whole face lightened with the dawn of a sudden idea. “I have it!” She looked at Torrigiani gleefully. “I tell you I have it!”
His composed face betrayed small interest. Holding his glass of Château Yquem up against the light he studied it intently.
“What a marvelous wine.” His hand trembled as he let the glass down again with a slight jar.
Ellen interrupted him ruthlessly.
“It must have been Alexis Petrovskey,” she cried triumphantly.
His olive skin paled a trifle.
“Alexis Petrovskey, the violinist?” His voice was studiously calm. “But weren’t the papers full of his disappearance a while ago?”
She nodded joyfully. “The same! And thereby hangs the tale! As a matter of fact, he did run away from his sanitarium, but he is back again now, hiding behind Anne’s skirts.”