“Do you know you are telling a very strange story to me?”
“It is a strange story, Mr. Barham. But it is all true. Mr. Locke cannot be found—nor can Charley.”
“Who is Charley?”
“A Chinese boy—Locke’s servant.”
“Do you think it might be, then, that my wife came to the wrong house? I have heard of such mistakes.”
“That might be. But this is the address she gave her own chauffeur.”
“May I see Louis?”
The chauffeur was brought in and told his tale with the same immovable calm he always displayed.
He addressed himself to Barham.
“Madame ordered her car for nine-thirty,” he said.
“She bade me drive her here. I did so. When she alighted, she told me to be here for her, a little before eleven, as she was then going to Madame Gardner’s. I was here shortly before eleven and waited a little distance away. While I was waiting, there seemed to be some commotion—several people left this house hurriedly, and some policemen came.”
“You sat still and waited?” put in Hutchins, hastily.
“Why not? It was the order. And I knew not but it was apartments and the police had naught to do with the home Madame visited. Yes, I waited, until maybe half after eleven, then the commotion grew more—and I began to feel fear. I came to the door and asked for Madame. The rest is known.”
Louis was the perfect French chauffeur. His manner and mien showed just the right shade of grief, without being unduly or presumptuously personal.
Hutchins watched him out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t always trust French chauffeurs.
