“You may want this,” he said. “You know you have a regular income, but you must keep in touch with the Lyonnais. For the moment I should advise you to go to”—he looked at the ceiling for inspiration—“to Nice or Monte Carlo. Keep away from the tables,” he added humorously.
“But—but,” said the bewildered girl, “for how long will you be gone? Can’t I come with you?”
“That is impossible,” he said sharply. “You must go to the South of France, leave by to-night’s train. Give your address to nobody, and take another name if necessary.”
“Are things very wrong?”
“Pretty bad,” he said. “But don’t worry. I may be gone for a year, even more. There are plenty of things you can do, but don’t go back into the profession yet awhile.”
“I thought of taking up cinema work,” she said.
He nodded.
“You might do worse than go to America—if I am a long time gone.”
He stuffed the remainder of the notes into his pocket, picked up his bag, and with no other farewell than a curt nod, left her.
She was only to see him once again in her life-time.