“Alone!”
She echoed the word with a look of mingled disappointment and alarm.
“Alone, papa?”
But here the Frenchman interposed eagerly.
Nothing was more simple, he said: Mademoiselle had only to walk straight on to the Rue Neuve des Petits Champs; she would then, and then——
He ran off into a string of rapid directions, not one of which Eleanor heard. She was looking at her father, Heaven knows how earnestly, for she saw in his face, in his nervous hesitating manner, something that told her there was some sinister influence to be dreaded from this garrulous, eager Frenchman and his silent companion.
“Papa, dear,” she said, in a low, almost imploring voice, “do you really wish me to go back alone?”
“Why—why, you see, my dear, I—I don’t exactly wish—but there are appointments which, as Monsieur remarks, not—not unreasonably, should not be broken, and——”
“You will stay out late, papa, perhaps, with these gentlemen——”
“No, no, my love, no, no; for an hour or so; not longer.”