"I'm all alone to-night—it will be a real picnic." She took off her opera cloak and threw it on the sofa. "My cook sleeps out—she's a married woman—and Mélanie has gone home for a short holiday."
She told the lie coolly, knowing that near at hand the maid, well coached, was waiting for her cue; an important witness if subsequent events should necessitate her reappearance.
"You aren't nervous?" McTaggart looked surprised—"I mean, of staying here alone all night."
"Oh, dear no." She shrugged her shoulders. "I could ring up the porter in case of need."
She studied her face a moment in the glass, fingering the tulle that covered her shoulders. "I think perhaps... Yes!—I'll get out of this and slip into a comfortable tea-gown. You don't mind waiting, do you, Pierrot? I shan't be long." She
