Propped up against the now lighted lamp was a letter addressed to Monsieur Polperro in a peculiar, large handwriting.  L’Ami Fritz, again uttering that queer guttural exclamation, snatched up the envelope, and hurriedly put it into his breast-pocket.

“I brought that letter out of M’sieur’s bed-room,” observed the day-servant, cringingly.  “I feared M’sieur had forgotten it!  Would M’sieur like me to take it to the Villa du Lac on my way home?”

“No,” said Monsieur Wachner, shortly.  “There is no need for you to do that; Madame Bailey will kindly take it for me.”

And again Sylvia felt surprised.  Surely he had said—­or was it Madame Wachner?—­that they had arranged for a man to call for it.

His wife shouted out his name imperiously from the dark passage, “Fritz!  Fritz!  Come here a moment; I want you.”

He hurried out of the room, and Sylvia and the servant were thus left alone together for a few moments in the dining-room.

The woman went to the buffet and took up a plate; she came and placed it noisily on the table, and, under cover of the sound she made, “Do not stay here, Madame,” she whispered, thrusting her wrinkled, sharp-featured face close to the Englishwoman’s.  “Come away with me!  Say you want me to wait a bit and conduct you back to the Villa du Lac.”

Sylvia stared at her distrustfully.  This femme de menage had a disagreeable face; there was a cunning, avaricious look in her eyes, or so Mrs. Bailey fancied; no doubt she remembered the couple of francs which had been given to her, or rather extorted by her, on the occasion of the English lady’s last visit to the Chalet des Muguets.

“I will not say more,” the servant went on, speaking very quickly, and under her breath.  “But I am an honest woman, and these people frighten me.  Still, I am not one to want embarrassments with the police.”

And Sylvia suddenly remembered that those were exactly the words which had been uttered by Anna Wolsky’s landlady in connection with Anna’s disappearance.  How frightened French people seemed to be of the police!

There came the sound of steps in the passage, and the Frenchwoman moved away quickly from Sylvia’s side.  She took up the plate she had just placed on the table, and to Sylvia’s mingled disgust and amusement began rubbing it vigorously with her elbow.

Monsieur Wachner entered the room.

“That will do, that will do, Annette,” he said patronisingly.  “Come here, my good woman!  Your mistress and I desire to give you a further little gift as you have shown so much zeal to-day, so here is twenty francs.”

“Merci, M’sieur.”

Without looking again at Sylvia the woman went out of the room, and a moment later the front door slammed behind her.

“My wife discovered that it is Annette’s fete day to-morrow, and gave her a trifle.  But she was evidently not satisfied, and no doubt that was why she stayed on to-night,” observed Monsieur Wachner solemnly.