“Then if he isn’t there, what’s the use of your rushing over to Paris?” protested Storran. “It’s absurd—an absolute wild-goose chase. You can’t go!”
Gillian’s brown eyes came back to his face.
“But I’m going,” she said calmly.
He frowned.
“If Michael’s not at his studio he may be—anywhere!”
She nodded.
“I know. If so, I shall follow—anywhere.”
Storran looked down at her and read the quiet determination in her face.
“Then let me come too,” he said. “Sort of courier, you know. I’d just be at hand in case of a tangle.”
“Oh, no! I couldn’t let you. There’s not the least need. Good heavens, I’m not a baby!”