"I—you—"
Adrian deliberately stepped down and crossed the bright, crowded sidewalk into the lobby, deigning no explanation whatever. Utterly stupefied, powerless to interfere, Allard watched him; saw him hand a card to the attendant who advanced, then follow on into an elevator and disappear. The huge hall was filled with chatting men and women, many of them moving in the court or diplomatic circles; to the watcher's excited fancy it seemed impossible that they should not recognize the slight, erect figure; it seemed that Adrian's identity cried out from every leisurely movement, every turn of the small imperious head. But presently the attendant returned alone, tranquil and smiling.
It was fully an hour that Allard waited, each of the sixty minutes an hour in itself. Many of those passing knew and bowed to him; some came over to congratulate him on the day's escape or to ask questions concerning it. One or two ladies paused with their escorts to shower him with effusive compliments. Knowing nothing of Adrian's intentions, he dared not even assume the partial protection of his mask. The climax arrived with the vibrating roar of another automobile, which fell into silence behind him as Count Rosal came placidly around to greet his friend.
"You, Allard," he welcomed languidly. "I thought you were on duty every night."
"Not this evening; the Emperor," he recollected the fiction told Dalmorov, "the Emperor is busy with some plans."
"I have been with the Regent. Do you believe it, the accident has made him look years younger. There must be some tonic in gunpowder and sulphur fumes. But you, you appear rather upset and pale; or is it these abominable lights?"
"It has been a hard day. I am too tired to be amusing, Rosal."
Rosal put his foot on the running-board without the least sign of going away.
"Then why are you not at home?" he very naturally inquired.
"Because I had an errand; I was too nervous to rest."