unseen beater of carpets, alone in a tiny heart of Paris, wondering what it was like. How many of his vague expectations of it had had their opportunity of fulfillment, and left him still wondering!
"Mais non, voyons!" laughed Noémi when the Marchesa made a move to depart. "Your car is in the garage and your chauffeur asleep. You're all going to stay—naturally."
When Grover was left in his bedroom he became aware that, by accident or design, again he couldn't be sure which and didn't care, Olga was occupying the room next to him. The savage, which Debussy and Noémi had for a time routed, was again in ambush. With a directness that would have taken his breath away, had he merely imagined the scene, instead of enacting it, he gently opened the door between them.
"Ah, it's the Prince!" came a cool voice from under a silken canopy.
The suggestions he had discussed with Mr. Marple proved, like so much else in Grover's life, far more easy to enunciate than to demonstrate. For many days he had evaded the issue, but as the time drew near for Mr. Marple's return he forced himself to a study of
