“With whom?” Peter asked, surprised.
“With the Korust Brothers,” she repeated. “I have just been talking to Andrea. He calls himself a Hungarian. Bah! They are as much Hungarian, those young men, as I am!”
Peter leaned slightly against the table and looked thoughtfully at his companion. He was trying to remember whether he had ever heard anything of these young men.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “the prospect of partaking of any meal in your company is in itself enchanting, but I do not know your friends, the Korust Brothers. Apart from their wonderful music, I do not recollect ever having heard of them before in my life. What excuse have I, then, for accepting their hospitality? Pardon me, too, if I add that you have not as yet spoken as to the urgency of this affair.”
She turned from him impatiently and, throwing herself back into the chair from which she had risen at his entrance, she began to exchange the thick woolen stockings which she had been wearing upon the stage for others of fine silk.
“Oh, la, la!” she exclaimed. “You are very slow, Monsieur le Baron. It is, perhaps, my stage name which has misled you. I am Marie Lapouse. Does that convey anything to you?”
“A great deal,” Peter admitted, quickly. “You stand very high upon the list of my agents whom I may trust.”
“Then stay here no longer,” she begged, “for my maid waits outside and I need her services. Go back and make your excuses to your wife. In forty minutes I shall expect you at the stage door.”
“An affair of diplomacy, this, or brute force?” he inquired.
“Heaven knows what may happen!” she replied. “To tell you the truth, I do not know myself. Be prepared for anything, but, for Heaven’s sake, go now! I can dress no further without my maid, and Andrea Korust may come in at any moment. I do not wish him to find you here.”