'
'What?'
Albert pursued his quest of knowledge.
'You get along home to your little wife,' Simon enjoined him. 'You're a
professional detective, you are. No doubt when you've recovered from
Paris, and got into your stride, you'll find out all that I know and a
bit over in about two seconds. Off you go!'
Simon's eyes glinted.
And later, when he was giving Hugo the last ministrations for the
night, Simon looked at his lord as a cat looks at the mouse it is
playing with--humorously, viciously, sarcastically.
'I'll give him a night to lie awake in,' said Simon's eyes.
But he only allowed his eyes to make this speech while Hugo's back was
turned.
The next morning Hugo's mood was desolating. To speak to him was to play
with fire. Obviously, Hugo had heard the clock strike all the hours.
Nevertheless, Simon permitted himself to be blithe, even offensively
blithe. And when Hugo had finished with him he ventured to linger.
'You needn't wait,' said Hugo, in a voice of sulphuric acid.
'So you didn't find Mrs. Francis Tudor, sir?' responded Simon, with calm
and beautiful insolence.
It was insolence because, though few of Hugo's secrets were hid from
Simon, the intercourse between master and servant was conducted on the
basis of a convention that Simon's ignorance of Hugo's affairs was
complete.
Pages:
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213