“What address, Madame?”
“Hôtel du Danube,” she answered like lightning—indeed far quicker than thought. “But I shall call here for the car. It must be waiting outside.”
The dispenser of cars bowed.
“Can you get a taxi for me?” Audrey suggested. “I will leave this roll here and this bag,” producing her old handbag which she had concealed under her coat. And she thought: “All this is really very simple.”
At the other address which she had found in the telephone book—a house in the Rue d’Aumale—she said to an aged concierge:
“Monsieur Foa—which floor?”
A very dark, rather short and negligently dressed man of nearly middle-age who was descending the staircase, raised his hat with grave ceremony:
“Pardon, Madame. Foa—it is I.”
Audrey was not prepared for this encounter. She had intended to compose her face and her speech while mounting the staircase. She blushed.
“I come from Musa—the violinist,” she began hesitatingly. “You invited him to play at your flat on Friday night, Monsieur.”