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The waiter was regretful but positive. No young lady of any description had arrived expecting to meet a gentleman in a private room. Duncombe tried him with her name. But yes, Mademoiselle Mermillon was exceedingly well known there! He would give orders that she should be shown up immediately she arrived. It would be soon, without doubt.
Mademoiselle Mermillon was of the order of young person who resents, but this afternoon she was far too nervous. During the porter's temporary absence she started at every footstep, and scrutinized anxiously every passer-by. Often she looked behind her through the glass doors into the street. When at last he reappeared alone her disappointment was obvious.
"You know most of the young ladies who come here, I suppose?" he asked. "But certainly!" the man answered with a smile, "Monsieur desires?" "I want the address of a young lady named Mermillon Flossie, I think they call her," Duncombe said. "Thirty-one, Rue Pigalle," the man answered promptly. "But she should be here within an hour. She never misses." Duncombe thanked him, and hailed a carriage.
Chucked out of everywhere in London at half-past twelve. 'Time, gentlemen, please! And out go the lights. Jove, I wonder what they'd think of this at the Continental! Let's let's have another bottle." The fair-haired girl Flossie to her friends, Mademoiselle Mermillon until you had been introduced whispered in his ear. He shook his head vaguely. She had her arm round his neck.
Monsieur le Baron smiled! Mademoiselle Mermillon was not warmly welcomed at the Grand Hotel. The porter believed that Sir George Duncombe was out. He would inquire, if Mademoiselle would wait, but he did not usher her into the drawing-room, as would have been his duty in an ordinary case, or even ask her to take a seat.
Monsieur Louis turned to the policeman. "Officer," he said, "this is Sir George Duncombe. Do your duty." The man stepped forward and laid his hand upon Sir George's shoulder. "Very sorry, sir," he said. "I am forced to arrest you on this warrant for the murder of Florence Mermillon on the night of the seventh of June. You will be brought before the magistrates at Norwich to-morrow."
Duncombe repeated. "On what charge?" "An extremely serious one," the Baron answered gravely. "The charge of murder!" Duncombe stared at him in amazement. "Murder!" he repeated. "What rubbish!" "The murder of Mademoiselle de Mermillon in her lodging on the night of the seventh of June last," the Baron said gravely. "Please do not make any remarks before these men.
"Can you tell me where to find Mademoiselle Mermillon?" Duncombe asked. "Next floor; first door on the left," the woman answered. "Mademoiselle is not often in at this hour, though." Duncombe thanked her, and climbed another flight of stairs. He had to strike a match to look for a bell or knocker, and then found neither. He knocked on the door with his knuckles. There was no reply.
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