"What did he say to that?" Ivan asked.
"Nothing, except that he was afraid I would regret having refused his services. He went out and we saw him drive off in the Countess Rosalie's taxi."
Ivan's head turned slowly in the high collar which he invariably wore, and he gave me an owlish look.
"Is the Countess Rosalie a friend of Frank's?" he asked; and I stiffened up a little at his free use of my name. Ivan was always markedly formal. There was something, however, in the tired, finished look of the handsome face that prevented my taking offence.
"Léontine asked me that question a while ago," I answered. "I told her that Rosalie was merely a good, disinterested friend of mine. I got acquainted with her when I was hanging about the restaurant opposite and watching the house for a glimpse of Chu-Chu. I told her I was an Alsatian predicatéur."
Ivan laughed softly. "As a matter of fact," said he, "she is a compatriot of yours, though I never would have guessed it if I hadn't heard her turn loose a torrent of American slang on some rather cheap clients in front of the Abbaye. But if she's a friend it seems to me that in your case I'd feel a bit uneasy about her."
"Why?" I asked. "Do you think that Chu-Chu suspected her of having worked with me?"
Ivan shrugged. "Who can tell?" he answered. "If he did, however, he would be very apt to pay off his score with her. He is a consistent man—not an ineffective like we three."
He reached for the Chablis and refilled his tum-
