“She would be, but we needn’t mind her,” the General rejoined, brusquely. “What do you make of Ziegler’s understudy?”
“I cannot make much of her,” replied Forsyth. “I am inclined to agree with you that she is as much in a fog as the rest of us.”
The General grunted, and proposed that they should at once go up and rummage Beaumanoir’s room for clues, a course which they instantly adopted. Since the charcoal episode their host had resolutely refused to occupy “the Duke’s room,” preferring to that grim state apartment a smaller chamber in the corridor where most of the guests were accommodated. Access was gained to it by two different doors, one leading to it through a dressing-room, the other directly opening into it. They chose the latter as being the nearest, and as they entered distinctly heard the swish of a silk skirt in the dressing-room, followed by the soft closing of the dressing-room door.
Alert and bristling like an angry terrier, the General stepped quickly back into the corridor—just in time to see another door gently shut a little farther on.
“You were right, laddie,” he said, rejoining Forsyth. “She has been here before us on the
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