“As a proof of what I say,” Godensky went on, “du Laurier did wait, did hear from me the place where you were to stop and pick me up. And if it wouldn’t be the worst of form to bet, I’d bet that he found some way of getting there in time to see that I had told the truth.”
“You coward!” I stammered.
“On the contrary, a brave man. I’ve heard that du Laurier is a fine shot, and that very few men in Paris can touch him with the foils. So you see—”
“You want to frighten me!” I exclaimed.
“You misjudge me in every way.”
My only answer was to tell Marianne to press the button which gives the signal for my chauffeur to stop. Instantly the electric carriage slowed down, then came to a standstill. My man opened the door and Count Godensky submitted to my will. Nevertheless, he was far from being in a submissive mood, as I did not need to be reminded by the tone of his voice when he said “au revoir.”
Nothing could have been more polite than the words or his way of speaking them, as he stood in the street with his hat in his hand. But to me they meant a threat, and as a threat they were intended.
My talk with Godensky at the stage door, my pause to pick him up, and my second pause to set him down, had all taken time, of which I had had little enough at the starting, if I were to meet Ivor Dundas when he arrived. It was two or three minutes after midnight, or so my watch said, when we drew up before the gate of my high-walled garden in the quiet Rue d’Hollande.
A little while ago I had been ready to seize upon almost any expedient for keeping Raoul away from my house to-night, but now, after what I had just heard from Godensky, I prayed to see him waiting for me.
Nobody (except Ivor, concerning whom I’d given orders) would be let in so late at night, during my absence, not even Raoul himself; so if he had come to reproach me, or break with me, he would have to stand outside the locked gate till I appeared. I looked for him longingly, but he was not there. There was, to be sure, a motor brougham in the street, for a wonder (usually the Rue d’Hollande is as empty as a desert, after eleven o’clock), but a girl’s face peered out at me from the window—an impish, curiously abnormal little face it was—extinguishing the spark of hope that sprang to life as I caught sight of the carriage.