He put out his hand, and I had to give him mine, for my chauffeur and the stage-door keeper (to say nothing of Marianne, who followed me closely), and several stage-carpenters, with other employés of the theatre, were within seeing and hearing distance. I wanted no gossip, though that was exactly what might best please Count Godensky.
“I got your note,” I answered, in Russian, though he had spoken in French. “What is it you want to see me about?”
“Something that can’t be told in a moment,” he said. “Something of great importance.”
“I’m very tired,” I sighed. “Can’t it wait until to-morrow?”
I tried to “draw” him, and to a certain extent, I succeeded.
“You wouldn’t ask that question, if you guessed what—I know,” he replied.
Was it a bluff, or did he know—not merely suspect—something?
“I don’t understand you,” I said quietly, though my lips were dry.
“Shall I mention the word—document?” he hinted. “Really, I’m sure you won’t regret it if you let me drive home with you, Mademoiselle.”
“I can’t do that,” I answered. “And I can’t take you into my carriage here. But I’ll stop for you, and wait at the corner Rue Eugène Beauharnais. Then you can go with me until I think it best for you to get out.”