"Ah—don't be sorry," she said softly. "I wanted to betray him. I was simply longing to do it—only I couldn't think of the right person to betray him to! But you are the right person, Monsieur. I am indeed fortunate!"
A little shiver ran through him. But he had gone too far to retreat.
"And the documents, Madame?"
"I will give you them to-morrow. There is a ball at the American Embassy. I can get you a card."
"I have one." He had indeed made it his first business to get one—was not the Girl with the Guitar an American, and could he dare to waste the least light chance of seeing her again?
"Well—be there at twelve, and you shall have everything. But," she looked sidelong at him, "will Monsieur be very kind—very attentive—in short, devote himself to me—for this one evening? He will be there."
He murmured something banal about the devotion of a lifetime, and went away to his lodging in a remote suburb, which he had chosen because he loved boating.
The next night at twelve saw him lounging, a gloomy figure, on a seat in an ante-room at the Embassy. He knew that the Lady was within, yet he could not go to her. He sat there despairingly, trying to hope that even now something might happen to save him. Yet, as it seemed, nothing short of a miracle could. But his star shone, and the miracle happened. For, as he sat, a radiant vision, all white lace and diamonds, detached itself from the arm of a grey-bearded gentleman, and floated towards him.
"It is you!" said the darling vision, and the next moment his hands—both hands—were warmly clasped by little white-gloved ones, and he was standing looking into the eyes of the Girl.
"I knew I should see you somewhere—this continent is so tiny," she said. "Come right along and be introduced to Papa—that's him over there."