Sylvia had the instant feeling—­she could not have told why—­that his wife’s question had greatly annoyed Monsieur Wachner.

“Of course I have written the letter!” he snapped out.  “Do I ever forget anything?”

“But I’m afraid there is no room vacant in the Villa du Lac,” said Sylvia.  “And yet—­well, I suppose they have not yet had time to let the Comte de Virieu’s room.  They only knew he was going this morning.  But you need not have troubled to write a letter, Monsieur Wachner.  I could have given the message when I got back to-night.  In any case let me take your letter.”

“Ah! but the person in question may arrive before you get back,” said Madame Wachner.  “No, no, we have arranged to send the letter by a cabman who will call for it.”

Monsieur Wachner pushed opened the white gate, and all three began walking up through the garden.  The mantle of night now draped every straggling bush, every wilted flower, and the little wilderness was filled with delicious, pungent night scents.

When they reached the front door L’Ami Fritz stooped down, and began looking under the mat.

Sylvia smiled in the darkness; there seemed something so primitive, so simple, in keeping the key of one’s front door outside under the mat!  And yet foolish, prejudiced people spoke of Lacville as a dangerous spot, as the plague pit of Paris.

Suddenly the door was opened by the day-servant.  And both the husband and wife uttered an involuntary exclamation of surprise and displeasure.

“What are you doing here?” asked Madame Wachner harshly.  There was a note of dismay, as well as of anger, in her voice.

The woman began to excuse herself volubly.  “I thought I might be of some use, Madame.  I thought I might help you with all the last details.”

“There was no necessity—­none at all—­for doing anything of the kind,” said her mistress, in a low, quick voice.  “You had been paid!  You had had your present!  However, as you are here, you may as well lay a third place in the dining-room, for, as you see, we have brought Madame Bailey back to have a little supper.  She will only stay a very few moments, as she has to be at the Villa du Lac by ten o’clock.”

The woman turned and threw open the door of the dining-room.  Then she struck a match, and lighted a lamp which stood on the table.

Sylvia, as is often the case with those who have been much thrown with French people, could understand French much better than she could speak it, and what Madame Wachner had just hissed out in rapid, mumbling tones, surprised and puzzled her.

It was quite untrue that she, Sylvia, had to be back at the Villa du Lac by ten o’clock—­for the matter of that, she could stay out as long and as late as she liked.

Then, again, although the arrangement that she should come to supper at the Chalet des Muguets to-night had been made that afternoon, the Wachners had been home, but they had evidently forgotten to tell their servant that they were expecting a visitor, for only two places were laid in the little dining-room into which they all three walked on entering the house.