By the time that the detective had been primed with such facts and
details as I could give, it was past ten o'clock. I could see my way to
do nothing more for the moment, and as I was half famished, I whizzed
back in my hired automobile to the Elysee Palace Hotel. There I had food
served in my own sitting-room, lest George Sandford should chance
inconveniently upon some acquaintance of Ivor Dundas, in the restaurant.
I did not hurry over the meal, for all I wanted now was to arrive at
Maxine de Renzie's house at twelve o'clock, and tell her my news--or
lack of news. She would be there waiting for me, I was sure, no matter
how prompt I might be, for though in ordinary circumstances, after the
first performance of a new play, either Maxine would have gone out to
supper, or invited guests to sup with her, she would have accepted no
invitation, given none, for to-night. She would hurry out of the
theatre, probably without waiting to remove her stage make-up, and she
would go home unaccompanied, except by her maid.
Maxine lives in a charming little old-fashioned house, set back in its
own garden, a great "find" in a good quarter of Paris; and her house
could he reached in ten minutes' drive from my hotel.
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