At this moment Jeanne dropped her sunshade. I picked it up for her.

"Thank you, Monsieur," she said.

Of course these words were no more than ordinarily polite. She would
have said the same to the first comer. Nothing in her attitude or her
look displayed any emotion which might put a value on this common form of
speech. But it was her voice, that music I so often dream of. Had it
spoken insults, I should have found it sweet. It inspired me with the
sudden resolution of detaining this fugitive apparition, of resting, if
possible, another hour near her to whose side an unexpected stroke of
fortune had brought me.

M. Charnot had already left the room; his rotund shadow rested on the
wall of the passage. He held a travelling-bag in his hand.

"Monsieur," said I, "I am sorry that you are obliged to return already to
Milan. I am quite certain of admission to the Villa Dannegianti, and it
would have given me pleasure to repair a mistake which is clearly due
only to the stupidity of the servants."

He stopped; the stroke had told.

"It is certainly quite possible that they never looked at my card or my
letters. But allow me to ask, since my card did not reach the host, what
secret you possess to enable yours to get to him?"

"No secret at all, still less any merit of my own. I am the bearer of
news of great importance to the owners of the villa, news of a purely