into shaded corners, and the tail of one of them watching to see that the servant kept both his hands in sight. The room was empty, however, and the man bowed himself out, saying that mademoiselle would be down immediately.
The picture of Rosalie s face was the next thing that flashed through my mind—the shock, astonishment, then the deep, burning flush that overspread it as she realised that I was going into the house of Léontine! Poor girl, she little guessed the fond, loverlike emotions which I did not have as I stood there with my hackles on end, my teeth bared, lips twitching ready to hand out wholesale slaughter with gun and knife. I wondered if Rosalie had recognised Chu-Chu, and decided that she could not have done so. His disguise was too cleverly done. Only a blood enemy could have pierced it—and perhaps not even he unless forewarned.
I was pining to get to the front of the house to have a look at the Bon Cocher, but there was no time. There was the peculiar swish which seemed so characteristic of Léontine when she moved, for she had a way of switching her skirt as she walked; and she stood in the doorway, ravishingly lovely in a summer costume of old embroidered linen and lace, pale cream in tint, over satin of a deeper and luscious yellow. The colour was in perfect harmony with her rich ivory skin and clear, dark amber eyes. Her short, heavy curls were held as usual by the golden fillet, with its great emerald.
It did not look like a costume that a woman would be apt to put on to assist at the murder of a man; nor did anything in her expression or the warmth of
