"Wait!" he called to the driver.
He dived among the carriages and cars, and presently he found what he
sought,--her limousine. He had taken the number into his mind too keenly
to be mistaken. He saw the end of his difficulties; and he went about the
affair with his usual directness. It was only at rare times that he ran
his head into a cul-de-sac. If her chauffeur was regularly employed in her
service, he would have to return to the hotel; but if he came from the
garage, there was hope. Every man is said to have his price, and a French
chauffeur might prove no notable exception to the rule.
"Are you driver for Madame da Toscana?" Courtlandt asked of the man
lounging in the forward seat.
The chauffeur looked hard at his questioner, and on finding that he
satisfied the requirements of a gentleman, grumbled an affirmative. The
limousine was well known in Paris, and he was growing weary of these
endless inquiries.
"Are you in her employ directly, or do you come from the garage?"
"I am from the garage, but I drive mademoiselle's car most of the time,
especially at night. It is not madame but mademoiselle, Monsieur."
"My mistake." A slight pause. It was rather a difficult moment for
Courtlandt. The chauffeur waited wonderingly. "Would you like to make five
hundred francs?"
"How, Monsieur?"
Courtlandt should have been warned by the tone, which contained no unusual
interest or eagerness.
"Permit me to remain in mademoiselle's car till she comes. I wish to ride
with her to her apartment."
The chauffeur laughed. He stretched his legs. "Thanks, Monsieur. It is
very dull waiting. Monsieur knows a good joke."
And to Courtlandt's dismay he realized that his proposal had truly been
accepted as a jest.
"I am not joking. I am in earnest. Five hundred francs. On the word of a
gentleman I mean mademoiselle no harm. I am known to her. All she has to
do is to appeal to you, and you can stop the car and summon the police."
The chauffeur drew in his legs and leaned toward his tempter. "Monsieur,
if you are not jesting, then you are a madman. Who are you? What do I know
about you? I never saw you before, and for two seasons I have driven
mademoiselle in Paris. She wears beautiful jewels to-night. How do I know
that you are not a gentlemanly thief? Ride home with mademoiselle! You are
crazy. Make yourself scarce, Monsieur; in one minute I shall call the
police."
"Blockhead!"
English of this order the Frenchman perfectly understood. "Là, là!" he
cried, rising to execute his threat.
Courtlandt was furious, but his fury was directed at himself as much as at
the trustworthy young man getting down from the limousine. His eagerness
had led him to mistake stupidity for cleverness. He had gone about the
affair with all the clumsiness of a boy who was making his first
appearance at the stage entrance. It was mightily disconcerting, too, to
have found an honest man when he was in desperate need of a dishonest one.
He had faced with fine courage all sorts of dangerous wild animals; but at
this moment he hadn't the courage to face a policeman and endeavor to
explain, in a foreign tongue, a situation at once so delicate and so
singularly open to misconstruction. So, for the second time in his life he
took to his heels. Of the first time, more anon. He scrambled back to his
own car, slammed the door, and told the driver to drop him at the Grand.
His undignified retreat caused his face to burn; but discretion would not
be denied. However, he did not return to the hotel.