THERE was a strong resemblance between Arlette and her mother. But though aged and careworn, Madame Mazolle’s face showed the remnants of a beauty which must in her youth have exceeded Arlette’s loveliness. Madame Mazolle had slaved at her work—first to bring up her three daughters, and then to dull the sorrow caused her by the elder two. She still toiled at repairing old lace, and was sufficiently expert to earn a modest competency.
D’Enneris came into the spotlessly clean little flat.
“Don’t you think she’ll be back soon, then?” he asked.
“I hardly know. Arlette doesn’t tell me much of her doings these days. She is always afraid, after what’s happened, I’ll get worried. All the fuss there’s been has distressed her enormously. But she did tell me she was going to see a sick mannequin,
