Who were they?"
"Only two. The footman, Leon..."
"You trust him?"
"Not altogether. Now you make me think, I shall discharge him when I
leave, without notice."
"Wait. Who else?"
"Marthe, my maid."
"You have confidence in her loyalty?"
"Implicit. She has been with me for years."
Lanyard said "Open that door!" in a tone sharp with such authority that
Liane Delorme instinctively obeyed, and the woman whom Lanyard had seen
that morning coming down the stairs with the lighted candle entered
rather precipitately, carrying over one arm an evening wrap of gold
brocade and fur.
"Pardon, madame," she murmured, and paused. Aside from the awkwardness
of her entrance, she betrayed no confusion. "I was about to knock and
ask if madame wished me to pack this..."
"You know very well I shall need it," Liane said ominously. A look from
Lanyard checked a tirade, or more exactly compressed it into a single
word: "Imbecile!"
"Yes, madame."
Marthe hinted at rather than executed a courtesy and withdrew. Liane
shut the door behind her, and reapproached the bed, trembling with an
anger that rendered her forgetful, so that she relapsed into French.
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