“Queer woman,” said Tombarel, very possibly divining my thoughts. “I have known her for over twenty years. She is the Châtelaine d’Ecrabouilles, and, as the Mayor of Creille, I have had many official relations with her; yet for twenty years I have not eaten the smallest little dry biscuit in her house.”
“Why?” I asked.
He shrugged hugely, throwing up both arms.
“Mystère! Let us call her eccentric.”
“But she doesn’t live there all alone without seeing anybody?”
“Of course not. She is grande dame. She has a big house in Paris where she entertains royally. Now and again she fills the Château here with guests. You saw the garage—room for twenty cars. Her guests go to Monte Carlo, Nice, Cannes, to amuse themselves. They are all French. Never English or American. Perhaps you are the only An
