“A bagatelle of one hundred thousand francs,” he said. “I ask no more.”
“Eh?” said Derek absently.
“I was saying, Monsieur, that a bagatelle of one hundred thousand francs would satisfy my—conscience.”
Derek seemed to recollect himself. He looked earnestly at the Comte.
“You would like my answer now?”
“If you please, Monsieur.”
“Then here it is. You can go to the devil. See?”
Leaving the Comte too astonished to speak, Derek turned on his heel and swung out of the room.
Once out of the hotel he hailed a taxi and drove to Mirelle’s hotel. On inquiring, he learned that the dancer had just come in. Derek gave the concierge his card.
“Take this up to Mademoiselle and ask if she will see me.”
A very brief interval elapsed, and then Derek was bidden to follow a chasseur.
A wave of exotic perfume assailed Derek’s nostrils as he stepped over the threshold of the dancer’s apartments. The room was filled with carnations, orchids, and mimosa. Mirelle was standing by the window in a pegnoir of foamy lace.
She came towards him, her hands outstretched.
“Dereek—you have come to me. I knew you would.”
He put aside the clinging arms and looked down on her sternly.