“Yes, I went to Dinard and had an interview with the Comtesse de Breteuil, awfully pleased with my own cleverness, and fully expecting to be told that no such person as Mademoiselle Brun had ever been heard of. Instead of which I was given to understand that the lady in question had been the mainstay of the household for the last seven years. So, unless the Comtesse is also a crook, that ingenious theory of mine falls to the ground.” Virginia shook her head. “Madame de Breteuil is quite above suspicion. I know her quite well, and I fancy I must have come across Mademoiselle at the chateau. I certainly know her face quite well—in that vague way one does know governesses and companions and people one sits opposite to in trains. It’s awful, but I never really look at them properly. Do you?” “Only if they’re exceptionally beautiful,” admitted Anthony. “Well, in this case——” she broke off. “What’s the matter?” Anthony was staring at a figure which detached itself from the clump of trees and stood there rigidly at attention. It was the Herzoslovakian, Boris. “Excuse me,” said Anthony to Virginia, “I must just speak to my dog a minute.” He went across to where Boris was standing. “What’s the matter? What do you want?” “Master,” said Boris, bowing. “Yes, that’s all very well, but you mustn’t keep following me about like this. It looks odd.” Without a word, Boris produced a soiled scrap of paper, evidently torn from a letter, and handed it to Anthony. “What’s this?” said Anthony. There was an address scrawled on the paper, nothing else. “He dropped it,” said Boris. “I bring it to the Master.” “Who dropped it?” “The foreign gentleman.” “But why bring it to me?” Boris looked at him reproachfully. “Well, anyway, go away now,” said Anthony. “I’m busy.” Boris saluted, turned sharply on his heel, and marched away. Anthony rejoined Virginia, thrusting the piece of paper into his pocket. “What did he want?” she asked curiously. “And why do you call him your dog?” “Because he acts like one,” said Anthony, answering the last question first. “He must have been a retriever in his last incarnation, I think. He’s just brought me a piece of a letter which he says the foreign gentleman dropped. I suppose he means Lemoine.” “I suppose so,” acquiesced Virginia. “He’s always following me round,” continued Anthony. “Just like a dog. Says next to nothing. Just looks at me with his big round eyes. I can’t make him out.” “Perhaps he meant Isaacstein,” suggested Virginia. “Isaacstein looks foreign enough, Heaven knows.” “Isaacstein,” muttered Anthony impatiently. “Where the devil does he come in?” “Are you ever sorry that you’ve mixed yourself up in all this?” asked Virginia suddenly. “Sorry? Good Lord, no. I love it. I’ve spent most of my life looking for trouble, you know. Perhaps, this time, I’ve got a little more than I bargained for.” “But you’re well out of the wood now,” said Virginia, a little surprised by the unusual gravity of his tone.