"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

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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.




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