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XXII

Nicole awoke late, murmuring something back into her
dream before she parted her long lashes tangled with sleep.
Dick’s bed was empty—only after a minute did she realize
that she had been awakened by a knock at their salon door.
‘Entrez!’ she called, but there was no answer, and after a
moment she slipped on a dressing-gown and went to open
it. A sergent-deville confronted her courteously and stepped
inside the door.
‘Mr. Afghan North—he is here?’
‘What? No—he’s gone to America.’
‘When did he leave, Madame?’
‘Yesterday morning.’
He shook his head and waved his forefinger at her in a
quicker rhythm.
‘He was in Paris last night. He is registered here but his
room is not occupied. They told me I had better ask at this
room.’
‘Sounds very peculiar to me—we saw him off yesterday
morning on the boat train.’
‘Be that as it may, he has been seen here this morning.
Even his carte d’identité has been seen. And there you are.’
‘We know nothing about it,’ she proclaimed in amaze-
ment.
He considered. He was an ill-smelling, handsome man.

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