The waiter’s conclusion was obvious.  And yet I did not accept it.  For why, if Marie were going to the duke’s, should she not have aroused her mother and gone with her?  That the duke had sent his carriage for her was likely enough; that he would cause it to wait outside the town was not impossible; that Marie had told her mother that she had gone to the duke’s was also clear from that lady’s triumphant demeanor.  But that she had in reality gone, I could not believe.  A sudden thought struck me.

“Did Mlle. Delhasse,” I asked, “send any answer to the note that came from the carriage?”

“Ah, sir, I forgot.  Certainly.  She wrote an answer, and the messenger carried it away with him.”

“And did the boy you speak of see anything more of the carriage?”

“He did not pass that way again, sir.”

My mind was now on the track of Marie’s device.  The duke had sent his carriage to fetch her.  She, left alone, unable to turn to me for guidance, determined not to go; afraid to defy him—­more afraid, no doubt, because she could no longer produce the necklace—­had played a neat trick.  She must have sent a message to the duke that she would come with her mother immediately that the necessary preparations could be made; she had then written a note to her mother to tell her that she had gone in the duke’s carriage and looked to her mother to follow her.  And having thus thrown both parties on a false scent, she had put on her hat and walked quietly out of the hotel.  But, then, where had she walked to?  My chain of inference was broken by that missing link.  I looked up at the waiter.  And then I cursed my carelessness.  For the waiter’s eyes were no longer fixed on my face, but were fastened in eloquent curiosity on the red box which lay on my table.  To my apprehensive fancy the Cardinal’s Necklace seemed to glitter through the case.  That did not of course happen; but a jewel case is easy to recognize, and I knew in a moment that the waiter discerned the presence of precious stones.  Our eyes met.  In my puzzle I could do nothing but smile feebly and apologetically.  The waiter smiled also—­but his was a smile of compassion and condolence.  He took a step nearer to me, and with infinite sympathy in his tone observed: 

“Ah, well, sir, do not despair!  A gentleman like you will soon find another lady to value the present more.”

In spite of my vanity—­and I was certainly not presenting myself in a very triumphant guise to the waiter’s imagination—­I jumped at the mistake.

“They are capricious creatures!” said I with a shrug.  “I’ll trouble myself no more about them.”

“You’re right, sir, you’re right.  It’s one one day, and another another.  It’s a pity, sir, to waste thought on them—­much more, good money.  You will dine to-night, sir?” and his tone took a consolatory inflection.

“Certainly I will dine,” said I; and with a last nod of intelligence and commiseration, he withdrew.