“Antoinette,” said I, “this young lady has travelled all the way from Asia Minor, where the good St. Paul had so many adventures, without changing her things.”

C’est y Dieu possible!” said Antoinette.

“Give her a nice hot bath, and perhaps you will have the kindness to lend her the underlinen that your sex is in the habit of wearing.  You will put her into the spare bedroom, as she is going to pass the night here, and you will look generally after her comfort.”

“Bien, M’sieu,” said Antoinette, regarding Carlotta in stupefaction.

“And put that hat and dress into the dust-bin.”

“Bien, M’sieu.”

“And as Mademoiselle is broken with fatigue, having come without stopping from Asia Minor, she will go to bed as soon as possible.”

“The poor angel,” said Antoinette.  “But will she not join Monsieur at dinner?”

“I think not,” said I, dryly.

“But the young ducklings that are roasting for the dinner of Monsieur?”

“If they were not roasting they might be growing up into ducks,” said I.

“Oh, la, la!” murmured Antoinette, below her breath.

“Carlotta,” said I, turning to the girl who had seated herself humbly on a straight-backed chair, “you will go with Antoinette and do as she tells you.  She doesn’t talk English, but she is used to making people understand her.”

“Mais, moi parley Francais un peu,” said Carlotta.

“Then you will win Antoinette’s heart, and she will lend you her finest.  Good-night,” said I, abruptly.  “I hope you will have a pleasant rest.”

She took my outstretched hand, and, to my great embarrassment, raised it to her lips.  Antoinette looked on, with a sentimental moisture in her eyes.

“The poor angel,” she repeated.

Later, I gave Stenson a succinct account of what had occurred.  I owed it to my reputation.  Then I went upstairs and dressed for dinner.  I consider I owe that to Stenson.  It was eight o’clock before I sat down, but Antoinette’s ducklings were delicious and brought consolation for the upheaval of the day.  I was unfolding the latest edition of The Westminster Gazette with which I always soothe the digestive half-hour after dinner, when Antoinette entered to report progress.

She was sound asleep, the poor little one.  Oh, but she was tired.  She had eaten some consomme, a bit of fish and an omelette.  But she was beautiful, gentle as a lamb; and she had a skin on dirait du satin.  Had not Monsieur noticed it?

I replied, with some over-emphasis, that I had not.

“Monsieur rather regards the inside of his books,” said Antoinette.

“They are generally more worth regarding,” said I.

Antoinette said nothing; but there was a feminine quiver at the corners of her fat lips.

She was comfortably disposed of for the night.  I drew a breath of relief.  To-morrow Great Scotland Yard should set out on the track of the absconding Harry.  Carlotta’s happy recollection of his surname facilitated the search.  I lit a cigarette and opened The Westminster Gazette.