Célestine became intensely animated in an instant. “Oh yes!” she said, using her favourite English idiom. “The door was open as always, monsieur, and I shut it as always. But it is necessary to explain. Listen! When I enter the room of madame from the other door in there—ah! but if monsieur will give himself the pain to enter the other room, all explains itself.” She tripped across to the door, and urged Trent before her into the larger bedroom with a hand on his arm. “See! I enter the room with the tea like this. I approach the bed. Before I come quite near the bed, here is the door to my right hand—open always—so! But monsieur can perceive that I see nothing in the room of Monsieur Manderson. The door opens to the bed, not to me who approach from down there. I shut it without seeing in. It is the order. Yesterday it was as ordinary. I see nothing of the next room. Madame sleep like an angel—she see nothing. I shut the door. I place the _plateau_—I open the curtains—I prepare the toilette—I retire—voilà!” Célestine paused for breath and spread her hands abroad. Trent, who had followed her movements and gesticulations with deepening gravity, nodded his head. “I see exactly how it was now,” he said. “Thank you, Célestine. So Mr. Manderson was supposed to be still in his room while your mistress was getting up, and dressing, and having breakfast in her boudoir?” “Oui, monsieur.” “Nobody missed him, in fact,” remarked Trent. “Well, Célestine, I am very much obliged to you.” He reopened the door to the outer bedroom. “It is nothing, monsieur,” said Célestine, as she crossed the small room. “I hope that monsieur will catch the assassin of Monsieur Manderson. But I not regret him too much,” she added with sudden and amazing violence, turning round with her hand on the knob of the outer door. She set her teeth with an audible sound, and the colour rose in her small dark face. English departed from her. “Je ne le regrette pas du tout, du tout!” she cried with a flood of words. “Madame—ah! je me jetterais au feu pour madame—une femme si charmante, si adorable! Mais un homme comme monsieur—maussade, boudeur, impassible! Ah, non!—de ma vie! J’en avais par-dessus la tête, de monsieur! Ah! vrai! Est-ce insupportable, tout de même, qu’il existe des types comme ça? Je vous jure que—”