He hesitated. “I don’t think so, but I can wait if you like.” He stepped through a doorway and sat down gingerly upon a chair which Claire pointed out to him.
A joyful tattoo beating against her ribs, Claire ran down the long vaulted corridor and knocked upon the door of Mme. Petrovskey’s study.
A deep voice boomed permission to enter. Claire burst into the room almost violently.
“It’s a letter from Alexis, Aunt. Do please read it and tell me what he says!”
“Give it to me!”
A large woman, seated at a roll-top desk, revolved round in her chair, took the letter without a word and started to read it.
Hands clasped tightly together, Claire watched her eagerly. It was one of those bland, non-committal faces, full and inclined to be weather-beaten, which are often called motherly because they top a large motherly body, and have the smooth expressionless surface of a rag doll. But Claire knew the face very well indeed, had studied it since childhood, so that the minutest pinching of the puckered lips, the slightest increase in color, spoke volumes. And the letter was evidently disturbing indeed, judging from the mottled purple on her aunt’s cheeks, the angry clutch of the broad fingers upon the crumpled sheets.
As Mme. Petrovskey turned the last page she laid the letter deliberately upon the desk, and turned her back upon Claire.
“Well,” faltered the girl. “Is Alexis all right and is—is he coming back soon? Shall I tell the chauffeur to wait for your answer?”
“There is no answer!”