swered: ‘Give them to me. My daughter will like to have them.’”
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
