"So that is all! You need not think of it, my dear, for I assure you it is rather attractive than otherwise. It serves to render you distinctive, at all events, and that is what everyone is striving for, nowadays. The car will be brought around to the door for you at ten, when you will be in time for the last act. You will have only one thing to remember; be sure that you seat yourself on the extreme left of the box, and that your hand is within reach."
"If you will describe the gentleman to me—" Betty began, but the other interrupted quickly.
"That is quite unnecessary, as you are to make no advances, nor indeed appear cognizant of his existence. Permit him to place the envelope in your hand, but do not even glance in his direction. That is quite clear?"
"Oh, yes!" laughed Betty ingenuously. "I should be an adept at that sort of thing; I have had practice enough at school, passing surreptitious notes."
Mrs. Atterbury permitted herself to laugh softly.
"Then I shall take your success for granted. Come to me before you start, my dear. I have some flowers for you to wear, and I am going to lend you a string of my pearls."
When Betty, wrapped in an ermine cloak the value of which she dared not attempt to compute, drew up before the opera house she was tingling with excitement, but her brain was clear, and her nerves steady. She had realized in a swift flash of comprehension that she was assuming the first of her real tasks. Whatever was written in the mysterious letter which was to be entrusted to her, and whoever the stranger might be from whose hand she would receive it, she was convinced it was for this and no other purpose that she had been engaged. The secretarial work, the companionship, were mere subterfuges to conceal her true mission, although she could not fathom its meaning.
The third act was drawing to a close as she entered her box and Aida's exquisite pleading cry: "Ah no! ti calma—ascoltami," thrilled her very soul. A daring idea came to her. She had been directed to return as soon as she received the letter, but why could she not delay its delivery until the very end of the opera? She longed to hear the final aria, and it would be a simple matter to keep out of arm's reach.
The box on her left was occupied, for although she did not glance toward it, a rustling and soft murmur reached her ears as if her entrance had occasioned comment, unobtrusive though it had been.
For a moment she hesitated, then obeying the swift impulse she dropped her cloak and seated herself in a chair well to the right, her face averted. Scarcely had she composed herself when the curtain fell.