WHITEWASH
was a mere fiction, necessary to discredit her statements against me.
He read it over. He was rather proud of his English. He could write it fluently even if his accent in speaking betrayed the foreigner.
A tap at the door startled him. Hastily folding the scrap of paper, he thrust it in his pocket, and went to the door.
"Who's there?" he demanded, sharply.
"Gustave. Does not monsieur desire dinner?"
Valdeck hesitated. "Yes," he decided. "Bring me something here—anything."
"Bien, monsieur."
The servant knocked at the adjoining room.
"Does madame desire dinner?"
"Yes," answered a woman's voice. "Some toast and coffee."
"Bien, madame," and Gustave's heavy tread announced his descent into the region of edibles.
"So," considered Valdeck, "the room next door is occupied. It is the first time. The voice is educated. Let us see our neighbor."
