‘My wife does not know the meaning of nerves. Your kindheartedness, dear Mrs. Thorne, for once leads you wide of the mark. Will you let me smoke a cigarette?’ asked Gaston, consulting his watch. ‘In ten minutes’ time I must be on my way to the Fort.’ They walked up and down, amicably chatting among the pleasant blue-gray shadows of the lawn. Neither was ignorant of the art by which speech can be used for the concealment of thought, and Dinah’s name was not mentioned until the moment came for Gaston’s departure. Then Linda Thorne spoke again, and to the point. ‘I meant every word I uttered, Mr. Arbuthnot, and my best advice to you is, give your wife change. Why not try Sark? It is the lightest air we have in the Archipelago. Or, better still, run over for ten days to Brittany.’ In saying this, she glanced at him through her eyelashes. ‘You must, at least, allow that I am unselfish?’ ‘I allow only that you want to get rid of us,’ laughed Gaston Arbuthnot, with imperturbable neutrality. ‘Also, that your way of working the scheme out is charming. You pack up wise counsel, Mrs. Thorne, in silver paper, tied with rose-coloured ribbon, as you do Rahnee’s candy!’ CHAPTER XLI ONE WORD The French waitress met Dinah as she entered the hotel. Madame Thorne had called--there was scarce five minutes since. The visitor insisted ... but insisted on entering. A thousand amiabilities were to be transmitted by the tongue of Louise, and something--the Frenchwoman shrugged her shoulders vaguely--had been left in Madame’s salon for Monsieur. ‘I know all about it,’ cried Dinah, with readiness. ‘Mrs. Thorne and I have just been talking together. It is quite right, Louise.’ She assumed the lightest, most cheerful tone of which she was mistress, feeling, with inward smart, that the French shrug was over-vague, that a glimmer of suspicious knowledge showed on the serving-woman’s face. Then she walked, her step mock-elastic, a poorly counterfeited smile upon her lips, to her sitting-room. Shutting the door, with the automatic care human beings bestow on trivial actions in times when their hearts are fullest, Dinah walked straight to the fireplace. The ‘something’ left for Monsieur was evidently before her. A letter, almost amounting to a packet, stood on the mantelpiece. It was addressed in large decisive handwriting to ‘Mr. G. Arbuthnot, Miller’s Hotel, Guernsey.’ (Cette chère Smeet! Elle sait si bien s’effacer! A pair of iron-gray men’s gloves, lying, modestly, on the farther corner of the shelf did not arrest Dinah Arbuthnot’s sight.) ‘Mr. G. Arbuthnot, Miller’s Hotel, Guernsey.’