Having ascertained this, I sharply enquired in French what in the devil's name the Commissary of Police meant by walking into an Englishman's room without being invited; and not only that, but what under heaven he wanted anyway.
He was far more polite than I was.
"Ten thousand pardons, Monsieur," he apologised.

"I knocked twice, but hearing no answer, entered, thinking that perhaps, after all, the salon was unoccupied.

Important business must be my excuse.

I have to request that Monsieur Dundas will first place in my hands the gift he has brought from London to Mademoiselle de Renzie." "I have brought no gift for Mademoiselle de Renzie," I prevaricated boldly; but the man's knowledge of my name was ominous.

If the Paris police had contrived to learn it already, as well as to find out that I was the bearer of something for Maxine, it looked as if they knew enough to play the game in their own way--whatever that might be.
"Perhaps I should say, the thing which Mademoiselle lent--to a friend in England, and Monsieur has now kindly returned," amended the Commissary of Police as politely, as patiently, as ever.
"Really, I don't know what you are talking about," I said, shrugging my shoulders and looking bewildered--or hoping that I looked bewildered.
All the while I was wondering, desperately, if this meant ruin for Maxine, or if she would still find some way of saving herself.