The lady was here then, and she was
still here when I left the house."
"I assure you that this cannot have been on the day my friend left
Lacville," said Mrs. Bailey quickly. "Madame Wolsky left on a Saturday
afternoon. As I told you just now, Madame Wachner expected her to supper,
but she never came. She went to Paris instead."
The servant looked at her fixedly, and Sylvia's face became what it
seldom was--very forbidding in expression. She wished this meddling,
familiar woman would go away and leave her alone.
"No doubt Madame knows best! One day is like another to me. I beg
Madame's pardon."
The Frenchwoman took up her parasol and laid the house key on the table,
then, with a "_Bon jour, Madame, et encore merci bien!_" she noisily
closed the door behind her.
A moment later, Sylvia, with a sense of relief, found herself in sole
possession of the Chalet des Muguets.
* * * * *
Even the quietest, the most commonplace house has, as it were, an
individuality that sets it apart from other houses. And even those who
would deny that proposition must admit that every inhabited dwelling has
its own special nationality.
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