The concierge ostentatiously went back to her flowers. "You have not given _them_ Miss Desmond's address?" "Madame forgets," said the concierge, wounded virtue bristling in her voice, "that I was, for the moment, devoted to the interest of Monsieur. No. I am a loyal soul. I have told _nothing_. Only to despatch the letter. Behold all!" "I will give myself the pleasure of offering you a little present next week," said Lady St. Craye; "it is only that you should say nothing--nothing--and send no more letters. And--the address?" "Madame knows it--by what she says." "Yes, but I want to know if the address you have is the same that I have. Hotel Chevillon, Grez sur Loing. Is it so?" "It is exact. I thank you, Madame. Madame would do well to return _chez elle_ and to repose herself a little. Madame is all pale." "Is the aunt in Miss Desmond's rooms now?" "Yes; she writes letters without end, and telegrams; and the priest-father he runs with them like a sad old black dog that has not the habit of towns." "I shall go up and see her," said Lady St. Craye, "and I shall most likely give her the address. But do not give yourself anxiety. You will gain more by me than by any of the others. They are not rich. Me, I am, Heaven be praised." She went out and along the courtyard. At the foot of the wide shallow stairs she paused and leaned on the dusty banisters. "I feel as weak as any rat," she said, "but I must go through with it--I must." She climbed the stairs, and stood outside the brown door. The nails that had held the little card "Miss E. Desmond" still stuck there, but only four corners of the card remained. The door was not shut--it always shut unwillingly. She tapped. "Come in," said a clear, pleasant voice. And she went in. The room was not as she had seen it on the two occasions when it had been the battle ground where she and Betty fought for a man. Plaid travelling-rugs covered the divans. A gold-faced watch in a leather bracelet ticked on the table among scattered stationery. A lady in a short sensible dress rose from the table, and the room was scented with the smell of Hungarian cigarettes. "I beg your pardon. I thought it was my brother-in-law. Did you call to see Miss Desmond? She is away for a short time." "Yes," said Lady St. Craye. "I know. I wanted to see you. The concierge told me--" "Oh, these concierges! They tell everything! It's what they were invented for, I believe. And you wanted--" She stopped, looked hard at the young woman and went on: "What you want is a good stiff brandy and soda. Here, where's the head of the pin?--I always think it such a pity bonnets went out. One could undo strings. That's it. Now, put your feet up. That's right, I'll be back in half a minute." Lady St. Craye found herself lying at full length on Betty's divan, her feet covered with a Tussore driving-rug, her violet-wreathed hat on a table at some distance.