Her French was clear and
clicking, with a slight provincial accent.
"Oh--" He breathed it out at great length, exhaling. Yet it sounded like
a hiss. "Stires, eh?" And he looked at me.
I had been thinking, as we stood on the steps. "How am I to move Ching
Po off?" I asked irritably. It had suddenly struck me that, inspired by
Madame Mauer, we were embarking on sheer idiocy.
"I'll move him," replied Follet with a curious intonation.
At that instant my eye lighted again on the pistol. "Not with that." I
jerked my chin ever so slightly in the direction of his pocket.
"Oh, take it if you want it. Come on." He thrust the weapon into my
innocent hand and began to pull at my bougainvillea vine as if it were
in his way. Some of the splendid petals fluttered about Madame Mauer's
head.
We reached the Mauers' front porch by a circuitous route--through the
back garden and the house itself--and paused to admire the view. Yes, we
looked for Ching Po as if we were tourists and he were Niagara.
"He hasn't moved yet." This was Madame Mauer's triumphant whimper.
Inarticulate noises somewhere near indicated that French Eva was still
in sanctuary.
Follet grunted. Then he unleashed his supple body and was half way to
the gate in a single arrow flight. I followed, carrying the pistol still
in my hand.
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