person might enjoy a little dip into vice—not because it was vice, but because he was a bit fed up on the other.
Gustave, our little mécanicien, was the only person at the office. He seemed very glad to see me back, and said there had been practically no business at all since I had been away. He had taken several people out to show the car, but did not know that anything had come of it. He believed there had been two sales from the Basle office and one from the Geneva.
I next called up the Cuttynges and learned from the butler that monsieur and madame were expected home the following night, but only to stop over twenty-four hours en route for Baden, as monsieur had been suffering from his stomach. Gustave told me that he had been forwarding all letters to Monsieur Cuttynge.
There was really nothing for me to do, and I was about to lock up my desk and stroll down to the Automobile Club, when Gustave brought in a note that he said had just been left by a man who looked like a valet de chambre. One glance at the envelope showed me that it was from Léontine. It read:
