WHITEWASH
The Lorient-coifed chambermaid appeared burdened with towels and full of business. The girl confronted her. "Do you know who the young man is who just went up-stairs? He looks like some one I know, but I can't be sure."
"Oh, yes—fifty—seven." The woman patted the towels gently, as if struggling to remember among the press of patrons. "Fifty-seven—fifty-seven—came yesterday—had a headache and his dinner in his room. I think he went out awhile ago, but he didn't stay long. Seems to be expecting somebody from the way he sits by the window. English? of course. You should hear him speak French." She laughed. "His name? I don't know—oh, yes, his bag has 'J. O Farrell' marked on it; it's a cheap bag," and with this information she proceeded on her way.
"That settles it—you've lost," said Sonia.
"I suppose I have." Victoria's voice was puzzled and unconvinced.
As they emerged into the street, Shorty pounced upon them. "Come quick! There's a whole band of women from Faouët going to have
