"The name of this one," Estermen continued slowly, "is Madame
Christophor."
Herr Freudenberg sat quite still in his place. His eyes seemed fixed upon a cluster of the roses which hung down from the other side of the sweet-smelling barrier by which they were surrounded. Yet something had gone out of his face, something fresh had arrived. The half contemptuous curl of the lips was finished. His mouth now was straight and hard, his eyes set, the deep lines upon his forehead and around his mouth were suddenly insistent. He sat so motionless that his face for a moment seemed as though it were fashioned in wax. Then his lips moved, he spoke in a whisper which was almost inaudible.
"Henriette!"
From across the table his companion watched him. At first she was puzzled. When she heard the woman's name which came so softly from his lips, she turned pale. Herr Freudenberg recovered from his fit of abstraction almost as quickly as he had lapsed into it.
"I thank you, Estermen," he declared. "It is a coincidence, this. I am obliged for your forethought in mentioning it. Until later, then."
The man made a somewhat clumsy bow, glanced admiringly at Herr Freudenberg's companion, and departed. Herr Freudenberg was shaking his head slowly.
"I fear," he said softly to himself, "sometimes I fear that I am not so well served as might be in Paris. However, we shall see. For the moment let us banish these dull cares. If you are ready, Marguerite, I think I might suggest that the nearer way to the Opera is by the Champs Élysées."
She rose to her feet and gave him her hand for a moment as she passed.
"If one could only find as easily the way to your heart, dear maker of toys!" she murmured.