“Monsieur has arrived?” the woman demanded, breathlessly.
The proprietor of the restaurant himself bowed a reply. His client was evidently well-known to him. He answered her in French—French, with a very guttural accent.
“Monsieur has ascended some few minutes ago. Myself, I have not had the pleasure of wishing him bon aperitif, but Fritz announced his coming.”
The woman drew a little sigh of relief. A vague misgiving had troubled her during the last few hours. She raised her veil as she mounted the narrow staircase which led to the one private room at the Hotel de Lorraine. She entered, without tapping, the room at the head of the stairs, pushing open the ill-varnished door with its white-curtained top. At first she thought that the little apartment was empty.
“Are you there?” she exclaimed, advancing a few steps.
The figure of a man glided from behind the worn screen close by her side, and stood between her and the door.
“Madame!” De Grost said, bowing low.
Even then she scarcely realized that she was trapped. “You?” she cried. “You, Baron? But I do not understand. You have followed me here?”
“On the contrary, Madame,” he answered. “I have preceded you.”
Her colossal vanity triumphed over her natural astuteness. The man had employed spies to watch her! He had lost his head. It was an awkward matter, this, but it was to be arranged. She held out her hands.