She replied in the affirmative. Then she added:
“I know him, but I do not like him. She trusts him, but——”
“I would not. I should be afraid, for to my knowledge he is a saigneur a musique.”
“And what is that?”
“What?” cried Henfrey. “Is he guilty of murder—and Mademoiselle knows it?”
“Mademoiselle may not know about it. She is probably in ignorance, or she would not employ him.”
Her remark was of considerable interest, inasmuch as old Cataldi had seemed to be most devoted to his mistress, and entirely trusted by her.
“Do you know the circumstances?” asked Hugh.
“Yes. But it is not our habit to speak of another’s—well, shortcomings,” was her reply.
“Surely, Mademoiselle should have been told the truth! Does not Il Passero know?” he asked.
There flitted across his mind at that moment the recollection of Dorise. What could she think of his disappearance? He longed to write to her, but The Sparrow’s chauffeur had impressed upon him the serious danger he would be running if he wrote to her while she was at Monte Carlo.
“I question whether he does know. But if he does he would say nothing.”
“Ah!” sighed Hugh. “Yours is indeed a queer world, mademoiselle. And not without interest.”
“It is full of adventure and excitement, of ups and downs, of constant travel and change, and of eternal apprehension of arrest,” replied the girl, with a laugh.
“I wish you would tell me something about Yvonne Ferad,” he repeated.
“Alas! m’sieur, I am not permitted,” was her obdurate reply. “I am truly sorry to hear of the dastardly attack upon her. She once did me a very kind and friendly action at a moment when I was in sore need of a friend.”
“Who could have fired the shot, do you think?” Henfrey asked. “You know her friends. Perhaps you know her enemies?”
Mademoiselle Lisette was silent for some moments.
“Yes,” she replied reflectively. “She has enemies, I know. But who has not?”
“Is there any person who, to your knowledge, would have any motive to kill her?”
Again she was silent.
“There are several people who hate her. One of them might have done it out of revenge. You say you saw nobody?”
“Why did you go and see her at that hour?” asked the girl.
“Because I wanted her to tell me something—something of greatest importance to me.”
“And she refused, of course? She keeps her own secrets.”
“No. On the other hand, she was about to disclose to me the information I sought when someone fired through the open window.”
“The shot might have been intended for you—eh?”
“It certainly might,” he admitted. “But with what motive?”