"But, monsieur, I do not know if I ought to tell you without knowing who
you are. Are you a friend of Madame's?"
"My name is Detective Rolfe--I come from Scotland Yard," replied Rolfe,
in the authoritative tone of a man who knew that the disclosure was sure
to command respect, if not a welcome.
"Scotland? You come from Scotland? Madame will regret much that she has
missed you."
"Scotland Yard, I said," corrected Rolfe, "not Scotland."
"Is it not the same?" Mademoiselle Chiron looked at him helplessly.
"Scotland Yard--is it not in Scotland? What is the difference?"
Rolfe, with a Londoner's tolerance for foreign ignorance, painstakingly
explained the difference. She looked so puzzled that he felt sure she did
not understand him. But that, he reflected, was not his fault.
"So you see, mademoiselle, my business with Mrs. Holymead is important,
therefore I'll be obliged if you will tell me where I can find her," he
said. "In what part of the country is she?"
Mademoiselle Chiron looked distressed. "Really, monsieur, I cannot tell
you. She is motoring, and I should have been with her but that I have _un
gros rhume"_--she produced a tiny scrap of lace handkerchief and held it
to her nose as though in support of her statement--"and she rings me on
the telephone from different places and tells me the things she does
need, and I do send them on to her.
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