Crewe listened to this outburst with inward surprise but impassive features.  Apparently the police had come to the conclusion that they had blundered in arresting Birchill for the murder of Sir Horace Fewbanks, and had recommenced inquiries with a view to bringing the crime home to somebody else.  He did not know whether their suspicions were now directed against Mrs. Holymead, but they had conducted their preliminary inquiries so clumsily as to arouse her fears that they did.  So much was apparent from Mademoiselle Chiron’s remarks, despite the interpretation she sought to place on Mrs. Holymead’s fears.  He wondered if the “police agent” was Rolfe or Chippenfield.  It was obvious that the cool proposal that he should help to shield Mrs. Holymead against unwelcome police attentions covered some deeper move, and he shaped his conversation in the endeavour to extract more from the Frenchwoman.

“I am very sorry to hear that Mrs. Holymead has been subjected to this annoyance,” he said warily.  “This police agent, did he come by himself?”

“But yes, monsieur, I have already said it.”

“I know, but I thought he might have had a companion waiting for him in a taxi-cab outside.  Scotland Yard men frequently travel in pairs.”

“He had no taxi-cab,” declared Mademoiselle Chiron, positively.  “He walked away on foot by himself.  I watched him from the window.”

Crewe registered a mental note of this admission.  If she had watched the detective’s departure from the window she evidently had some reason for wanting to see the last of him.  Aloud he said: 

“I expect I know him.  What was he like?”

“Tall, as tall as you, only bigger—­much bigger.  And he had the great moustache which he caressed again and again with his fingers.”  Gabrielle daintily imitated the action on her own short upper lip.

“I know him,” declared Crewe with a smile.  “His name is Rolfe.  There should be nothing about him to alarm you, mademoiselle.  Why, he is quite a ladies’ man.”

Gabrielle shrugged her shoulders disdainfully.

“That may be,” she replied; “but I like him not, and I do not wish him to worry Madame Holymead.”

“But why not let him see Mrs. Holymead?” suggested Crewe, after a short pause.  “As he only wants to ask her a few short questions, it seems to me that would be the quickest way out of the difficulty, and would save you all the trouble and worry you speak of.”

“I tell you I will not,” declared Gabrielle vehemently.  “I will not have Madame Holymead worried and made ill with the terrible ordeal.  Bah!  What do you men—­so clumsy—­know of the delicate feelings of a lady like Madame Holymead?  The least soupcon of excitement and she is disturbed, distraite, for days.  After last night—­after the visit of the police agent—­she was quite hysterical.”

“Why should she be when she had nothing to be afraid of?” rejoined Crewe.