"It is merely," he said in his friendly and confidential manner to
the servant, in perfect German, "that I have news from Monsieur
Darragon, the husband of Mademoiselle Desiree. Madame is out--you
say. Well, then, what is to be done?"
He had a most charming, grave manner of asking advice which few
could resist.
The servant nodded at him with a twinkle of understanding in her
eye.
"There is Fraulein Mathilde."
"But . . . well, ask her if she will do me the honour of speaking
to me for an instant. I leave it to you . . . ."
"But come in," protested the servant. "Come upstairs. She will see
you; why not?"
And she led the way upstairs. Papa Barlasch, sitting just within
the kitchen door, where he sat all day doing nothing, glanced
upwards through his overhanging eyebrows at the clink of spurs and
the clatter of de Casimir's sword against the banisters. He had the
air of a watchdog.
Mathilde was not in the drawing-room, and the servant left the
visitor there alone, saying that she would seek her mistress. There
were one or two books on the tables. One table was rather untidy;
it was Desiree's. A writing-desk stood in the corner of the room.
It was locked--and the lock was a good one. De Casimir was an
observant man. He had time to make this observation, and to see
that there were no letters in Desiree's work-basket; to note the
titles of the books and the absence of name on the flyleaf, and was
looking out of the window when the door opened and Mathilde came in.
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