“Where, monsieur?”

“At Pere Baudry’s.”

“No, monsieur.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“No, monsieur.”  He was firm, somewhat reproachful.

“You didn’t see Jean Ferret this morning?”

“Monsieur?”

“Amedee!”

“Eh, but I did not find him at Pere Baudry’s!  It may have happened that I stopped there, but he did not come until some time after.”

“After you had gone away from Pere Baudry’s, you mean?”

“No, monsieur; after I arrived there.  Truly.”

“Now we have it!  And you gave him the news of all that had happened here?”

“Monsieur!”

A world—­no, a constellation, a universe!—­of reproach was in the word.

“I retract the accusation,” I said promptly.  “I meant something else.”

“Upon everything that takes place at our hotel here, I am silent to all the world.”

“As the grave!” I said with enthusiasm.  “Truly—­that is a thing well known.  But Jean Ferret, then?  He is not so discreet; I have suspected that you are in his confidence.  At times you have even hinted as much.  Can you tell me if he saw the automobile of Monsieur Ingle when it came back to the chateau after leaving here?”

“It had arrived the moment before he departed.”

“Quite so!  I understand,” said I.

“He related to me that Mademoiselle Ward had the appearance of agitation, and Madame d’Armand that of pallor, which was also the case with Monsieur Ward.”

“Therefore,” I said, “Jean Ferret ran all the way to Pere Baudry’s to learn from you the reason for this agitation and this pallor?”

“But, monsieur—­”

“I retract again!” I cut him off—­to save time.  “What other news had he?”

There came a gleam into his small, infolded eyes, a tiny glitter reflecting the mellow candle-light, but changing it, in that reflection, to a cold and sinister point of steel.  It should have warned me, but, as he paused, I repeated my question.

“Monsieur, people say everything,” he answered, frowning as if deploring what they said in some secret, particular instance.  “The world is full of idle gossipers, tale-bearers, spreaders of scandal!  And, though I speak with perfect respect, all the people at the chateau are not perfect in such ways.”

“Do you mean the domestics?”

“The visitors!”

“What do they say?”

“Eh, well, then, they say—­but no!” He contrived a masterly pretense of pained reluctance.  “I cannot—­”

“Speak out,” I commanded, piqued by his shilly-shallying.  “What do they say?”

“Monsieur, it is about”—­he shifted his weight from one leg to the other—­“it is about—­about that beautiful Mademoiselle Elliott who sometimes comes here.”

This was so far from what I had expected that I was surprised into a slight change of attitude, which all too plainly gratified him, though he made an effort to conceal it.  “Well,” I said uneasily, “what do they find to say of Mademoiselle Elliott?”