"As if I should be!" he answered with dignity.
"I wouldn't trust you," she said promptly. "However, have a good time, and if you see the phantom lover, you might push him into the Seine for me."
"I'll remember," Micky said grimly. He hesitated. "Everything all right?" he asked.
She echoed his words, not understanding. "Everything all right? Do you mean the swindle? Oh, yes, it's going fine, thank you. I had another order from those American export people this morning."
"No, she's going on Saturday. Sickening, isn't it?"
"I don't think she'll stay long," Micky said soothingly. "It won't do her any harm to see how she likes it. Well, good-bye."
He stood for a moment after he had hung up the receiver, staring at it. He wished he had not arranged to go to Paris. Supposing Ashton took it into his head to come back while he was away? Supposing he went home and found Esther there?
He tried to believe that it was not at all likely, but at the last moment, as he got into the train and received his ticket from the solemn Driver, Micky said--
"You know where to find me if anything happens--if anything should be the matter?"
"Yes, sir." Driver raised wooden eyes to his master's face. "Was you expecting anything to happen, sir?" he asked stolidly.
"Very good, sir," Driver retorted unmoved.
And so Micky went to Paris. It was dark when he got there, and he drove at once to a small and unpretentious hotel in a narrow side street, where he had never been before, but of which he had heard from Philips.
After all, it was only for a few nights. He did not want to stay in Paris long--Paris always bored him, but he made a little grimace as he looked up at the windows of the hotel. It certainly was a rotten-looking little show, he thought as he followed the concierge into the hall. This, too, was small and unpretentious, with a polished floor and wicker chairs scattered about. There was a kind of winter garden leading from the lounge, where a few neglected palms and ferns were struggling for an existence, and the whole place was silent, almost deserted.
Micky was too late for dinner, but a smiling host, with a short dark beard, assured him that he could have a most excellent supper in less time than he would enumerate of what that supper would consist. Micky said he didn't care what it was. He followed his suit-case up the wide, shallow stairs to a quaint little room with a low ceiling and polished floor.