“Then I sent for Falcon, explained things, and told him to look after the man this evening, and that I was making arrangements for him to stay with Fitch over the garage.  Then I had Mrs. Chapel up.”

“That, I take it,” said Berry, “is the nymph lately responsible for the preparation of our food?”

Daphne nodded.

“I told her about Francois, and that, as he was here, he would help her with dinner to-night.  I said he was very clever, and all that sort of thing, and that I wanted her to show him what she was cooking, and listen to any suggestions he had to make.”

“I suppose you added that he couldn’t speak a word of English,” said her husband.

“Be quiet,” said Daphne.  “Besides, he can.  Several words.  Any way, she didn’t seem over-pleased, but, as Pauline’s coming on Monday, that didn’t worry me.  So I sent her away, and rang up Fitch and told him he must fix the Frenchman up for the night.”

“Did he seem over-pleased?”

“I didn’t wait to hear.  I just rang off quick.  Then I went up to dress.  The next thing I knew was that they’d tried to murder each other, and that Camille had bitten William, and Nobby’d bitten Camille.  I don’t suppose we shall ever know exactly what happened.”

So far as we had been able to gather from the butler, who had immediately repaired to Daphne’s room for instructions, and was labouring under great excitement, my sister’s orders had been but grudgingly obeyed.  Mrs. Chapel had been ill-tempered and obstructive, and had made no attempt to disguise her suspicion of the chef.  The latter had consequently determined to be as nasty as the circumstances allowed, had eyed her preparations for dinner with a marked contempt, and had communed visibly and audibly with himself in a manner which it was impossible to mistake.  Finally he had desired to taste the soup which she was cooking.  Poor as his English was, his meaning was apparent, but the charwoman had affected an utter inability to understand what he said.  This had so much incensed the Frenchman that the other servants had intervened and insisted on Mrs. Chapel’s compliance with his request.  With an ill grace she snatched the lid from the saucepan....

Everything was now in train for a frightful explosion.  In bitterness the fuse had been laid, the charge of passion was tamped, the detonator of spleen was in position.  Only a match was necessary....

Camille Francois, however, preferred to employ a torch.

After allowing the fluid to cool, the Frenchman—­by this time the cynosure of sixteen vigilant eyes—­introduced a teaspoonful into his mouth....

The most sanguine member of his audience was hardly expecting him to commend the beverage.  Mrs. Chapel herself must have felt instinctively that no man born of woman would in the circumstances renounce such a magnificent opportunity of “getting back.”  Nobody, however, was apparently prepared for so vigorous and dramatic an appreciation of the dainty.