Behind the gallantry of his manner he was observing her narrowly. There were very few things that the Comte did not know about women. True, his experience had not lain much in ladies of Mirelle’s class, who were themselves predatory. He and the dancer were, in a sense, birds of a feather. His arts, the Comte knew, would be thrown away on Mirelle. She was a Parisienne, and a shrewd one. Nevertheless, there was one thing that the Comte could recognise infallibly when he saw it. He knew at once that he was in the presence of a very angry woman, and an angry woman, as the Comte was well aware, always says more than is prudent, and is occasionally a source of profit to a levelheaded gentleman who keeps cool.
“It is most amiable of you, Mademoiselle, to honour my poor abode thus.”
“We have mutual friends in Paris,” said Mirelle. “I have heard of you from them, but I come to see you today for another reason. I have heard of you since I came to Nice—in a different way, you understand.”
“Ah?” said the Comte softly.
“I will be brutal,” continued the dancer; “nevertheless, believe that I have your welfare at heart. They are saying in Nice, Monsieur le Comte, that you are the murderer of the English lady, Madame Kettering.”
“I!—the murderer of Madame Kettering? Bah! But how absurd!”
He spoke more languidly than indignantly, knowing that he would thus provoke her further.
“But yes,” she insisted; “it is as I tell you.”
“It amuses people to talk,” murmured the Comte indifferently. “It would be beneath me to take such wild accusations seriously.”