The gaiety of Paris, the excited feeling that everything goes, had entered into them and they made a happy night of it. Even when Daisy dimly heard the party returning, she did not leap up in alarm but snuggled closer to Becket and closed her eyes in contented sleep.

They set out after lunch on the following day. Rose was delighted to see Daisy look so glowing and happy. Harry, on the other hand, eyed her narrowly, and hoped the wretched girl had not been doing anything she ought not to do.

They cruised along under the budding trees on the Bois, then through a toll gate and out past Neuilly and the Boulevard d’Inkermann to where Madame de Peurey’s large house was situated.

It was a large white villa, typical of the outer suburbs of Paris. Becket went ahead and knocked at the door, and, when a maid answered it, presented their cards. She disappeared into the villa and returned after a short time. Becket turned round and beckoned to the party that they were to enter.

The maid bobbed curtsies as they entered and then moved to the front of the party and led them through large shady rooms to a garden at the back. Rose expected to meet an elderly woman, still beautiful and elegant, this famous coquette who was reputed to have broken so many hearts.

At first she thought that the round little woman who rose to meet them must be some sort of companion, but she said in a grating voice, ‘I am Madame de Peurey. To what do I owe the honour of this visit? Pray sit down.’ She spoke English with a heavy, guttural accent.

They arranged themselves in cane chairs shaded by a vine trellis. Madame de Peurey was dressed in a narrow skirt and a blouse with a high-boned collar over which heavy jowls drooped. Her feet were encased in square-toed boots and she sat with her legs apart.

‘As you will have seen from my card,’ began Harry, ‘I am a private investigator and I am investigating the murder of Dolores Duval.’

‘Poor Dolores,’ sighed Madame de Peurey. ‘Without me, she would have given it all away. I took her to my lawyers when she embarked on her first liaison. Ah, what a success she was! Then the Baroness Chevenix started to scream that Dolores had stolen her jewels and it was all over Gil Blas.’ Gil Blas was a journal which delighted in reporting the scandals of French society. ‘I advised Dolores to leave France for a little. I told her it was perhaps time she took the unfashionable route of getting married. We do not normally marry,’ she said calmly. ‘But with the English milords marrying low creatures like chorus girls, well, I told her she could be a duchess.’

‘Who were her friends?’ asked Harry.

Just me, I think. The others were jealous of her. She appeared from nowhere some years ago. Poof! Just like that. She told me she was brought up on a farm in Brittany.’