About This Book
"Then, plainly speaking, the whole thing remains a mystery?" "Absolutely," I responded. "All my efforts have unfortunately failed." "And you entertain no suspicion of anyone?" "None whatever." "Not of that woman Yolande—or whatever her name is?" "Certainly not of her," I answered quickly. "She would assist us, if necessary." "Why are you so sure of that? She has only been in Paris a week." "Because I happen to know her." "You know her!" exclaimed His Excellency, unclasping his thin white hands and leaning across his big writing-table—a habit of his when suddenly interested. "Is she a personal friend of yours?" I hesitated for a moment; then replied in the affirmative. "Where did you know her?" he inquired quickly, fixing me with that sharp pair of black eyes that shone behind the zone of soft light shed by the green-shaded reading-lamp upon the table. He was sitting in the shadow, his thin, refined face ashen grey, his hair almost white. The one spot of colour was the fine star of Knight Grand Cross of the Bath glittering on the breast of his braided diplomatic uniform. Lord Barmouth, British Ambassador to the French Republic, had just returned from the President's reception at the Elysée, and had summoned me for consultation. "Well," I responded, "I knew her in Rome, among other places." "H'm, I thought as much," he remarked in a dry, dubious tone. "I don't like her, Ingram—I don't like her;" and I knew by the impatient snap of the Ambassador's fingers that something had displeased him. "You've seen her, then?"
