[Illustration: I saw the point of a tiny shoe.]
But I did none of these things--that is, nothing Paul Pryish or
presuming. I merely beckoned to the Maitre d'Hotel, as he stood poised
on the edge of the couple's kiosk, with the order for their breakfast in
his hands, and, when he had reached my half-way station on his way
across the garden to the kitchen, stopped him with a question. Not with
my lips--that is quite unnecessary with an old-time Maitre d'Hotel--but
with my two eyebrows, one thumb, and a part of one shoulder.
"The nephew of the Sultan, Monsieur--" he answered, instantly.
"And the lady?"
"Ah, that is Mademoiselle Ernestine Beraud of the Variete. She comes
quite often. For Monsieur, it is his first time this season."
He evidently took me for an old _habitue_. There are some
compensations, after all, in the life of a staid old painter.
With these solid facts in my possession I breathed a little easier.
Mademoiselle Ernestine Beraud, from the little I had seen of her, was
quite capable of managing her own affairs without my own or anybody
else's advice, even if I had been disposed to give it.
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