I took the liberty of peering inside. Eureka! There, resting comfortably
from its day's labors, stood a dark-blue automobile. If this was not the
motor that had brought Miss Falconer from the rue St.-Dominique, it was
its twin.
"You'll notice it's alone, though," I told myself. "Where's the gray
car?"
My mood was grumpy in the extreme. The inn was charming, but I knew from
sad experience that no place combines all attractions, and that a spot
so picturesque as this would probably lack running water and electric
light.
"_Bonsoir, Monsieur!_"
A buxom, smiling, bare-armed woman had emerged from the kitchen door.
She was plainly the hostess. I set down my bag and removed my hat.
"Madame," I responded, "I wish you a good evening. I desire a room for
the night in the Hotel of the Three Kings."
"To accommodate monsieur," she assured me warmly, "will be a pleasure.
Monsieur is an artist without doubt?"
I wanted to say "_Et tu, Brute!_" but I didn't. When one came to think
of it, I had no very good reason to advance for having appeared at
Bleau.
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