“Are you driver for Madame da Toscana?” Courtlandt asked of the man lounging in the forward seat.
The chauffeur looked hard at his questioner, and on finding that he satisfied the requirements of a gentleman, grumbled an affirmative. The limousine was well known in Paris, and he was growing weary of these endless inquiries.
“Are you in her employ directly, or do you come from the garage?”
“I am from the garage, but I drive mademoiselle’s car most of the time, especially at night. It is not madame but mademoiselle, Monsieur.”
“My mistake.” A slight pause. It was rather a difficult moment for Courtlandt. The chauffeur waited wonderingly. “Would you like to make five hundred francs?”
“How, Monsieur?”
Courtlandt should have been warned by the tone, which contained no unusual interest or eagerness.
“Permit me to remain in mademoiselle’s car till she comes. I wish to ride with her to her apartment.”
The chauffeur laughed. He stretched his legs. “Thanks, Monsieur. It is very dull waiting. Monsieur knows a good joke.”
And to Courtlandt’s dismay he realized that his proposal had truly been accepted as a jest.