Allard shrugged his shoulders and leaned back.
"Were you going somewhere?" he asked.
"Oh, no; just trying to avoid being bored. Every felicitation, my dear Allard; that is superb. You have nothing to fear from next week, evidently. Vasili told me yesterday that Dalmorov was speaking so kindly of you that it positively alarmed him. The baron praised everything you had ever done, from the time you came aboard the Nadeja at New York. And he asked all manner of questions about the trip over and the Grand Duke's fondness for you."
"Yes?" Allard responded absently. He could see an illuminated clock down the street, and he resolved that when the hand reached the hour he would defy Adrian's order and go in quest of him.
"Yes. A jealous animal, Dalmorov. New family; the title is only three generations old. I shall go to Paris next week; he never liked me very much, and there is a new singer at the Théâtre Français. Tiens, here is your man!"
Allard turned sharply, catching his breath. Rosal, who knew the Emperor so well,—could he be deceived? Certainly he could not keep the secret if it were learned, not if the mines, exile and sudden death itself awaited his disclosure; every club in the capital could have afforded tales of "ce bon bavard Rosal."
Adrian came through the vestibule and across the sidewalk with absolute composure. At Rosal he barely glanced while raising his gloved hand in conventional salute to the owner of the car.
"Good night, Rosal," Allard said pointedly.
Rosal did not move from his position, blocking entrance to the machine and surveying the arrival with mild interest.
"This is the chauffeur who drives over the limit about once a month?" he asked, with genuine continental and aristocratic insolence to a supposed inferior. "My man, do not apply to me for a position when your master tires of you; you are too expensive a luxury."