“Still, you’d no intention of coming here when I met you two days ago?”
“We all have our disappointments,” said Miss Cinderella sententiously.
“There now, I’ve told you quite as much as is good for you. Little boys
should not be inquisitive. You’ve not yet told me what you’re doing
here? Got the M.P. in tow, I suppose, doing the gay boy on the beach.”
I shook my head. “Guess again. You remember my telling you that my
great friend was a detective?”
“Yes?”
“And perhaps you’ve heard about this crime—at the Villa Geneviève—?”
She stared at me. Her breast heaved, and her eyes grew wide and round.
“You don’t mean—that you’re in on _that?___”
I nodded. There was no doubt that I had scored heavily. Her emotion, as
she regarded me, was only too evident. For some few seconds, she
remained silent, staring at me. Then she nodded her head emphatically.
“Well, if that doesn’t beat the band! Tote me round. I want to see all
the horrors.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I say. Bless the boy, didn’t I tell you I doted on crimes? What
do you think I’m imperilling my ankles for in high-heeled shoes over
this stubble? I’ve been nosing round for hours. Tried the front way in,
but that old stick-in-the-mud of a French gendarme wasn’t taking any. I
guess Helen of Troy, and Cleopatra, and Mary, Queen of Scots, rolled in
one wouldn’t cut ice with him! It’s a real piece of luck happening on
you this way. Come on, show me all the sights.”
“But look here—wait a minute—I can’t. Nobody’s allowed in. They’re
awfully strict.”
“Aren’t you and your friend the big bugs?”