“The Comtesses de Breteuil, Château de Breteuil, Dinard.”
“You didn’t actually see the Comtesse yourself? It was all done by letter?”
“Exactly.”
“H’m!” said Anthony.
“You intrigue me,” said Bundle. “You intrigue me enormously. Is it love or crime?”
“Probably sheer idiocy on my part. Let’s forget it.”
“ ‘Let’s forget it,’ said he negligently, having extracted all the information he wants. Mr. Cade, who do you suspect? I rather suspect Virginia as being the most unlikely person. Or possibly Bill.”
“What about you?”
“Member of the aristocracy joins in secret the Comrades of the Red Hand. It would create a sensation all right.”
Anthony laughed. He liked Bundle, though he was a little afraid of the shrewd penetration of her sharp grey eyes.
“You must be proud of all this,” he said suddenly, waving his hand towards the great house in the distance.
Bundle screwed up her eyes and tilted her head on one side.
“Yes—it means something, I suppose. But one’s too used to it. Anyway, we’re not here very much—too deadly dull. We’ve been at Cowes and Deauville all the summer after town, and then up to Scotland. Chimneys has been swathed in dust sheets for about five months. Once a week they take the dust sheets off and chars-à-bancs full of tourists come and gape, and listen to Tredwell. ‘On your right is the portrait of the fourth