Fairfax started, but the lady holding the little statue turned quickly to the officials—
"A license? Pourquoi faire, mes amis?"
"It is against the rules to sell anything in the streets of Paris without a license," said the policeman.
"Well," she exclaimed, "my friend has just made me a gift. This gentleman is a friend of mine for whom I am waiting to take me to my carriage. Allez vous en," she smiled at them, "I will excuse you, and so will Monsieur."
She was so perfectly mistress of the situation that he had nothing to do but leave himself in her hands.
"You will let me take you home," she said, "in whatever direction you are going," and he followed her to her little carriage, waiting before the curb.
She got in, gave the address of his studio to her coachman, and the next thing he knew was that he was rolling over the pavement he had so painfully traversed a few hours before.
She talked to him of the master, Cedersholm, and Antony listened. She talked enthusiastically, admiringly, and he parried her questions as to when and where he had worked with the Swedish sculptor. The statuette lay on her lap.
At the studio door, when Fairfax left her, she said, taking up the self-same gold purse that he had restored to her in the Louvre seven months ago—
"I hope that I have enough money to pay for this treasure, Mr. Rainsford. It's so beautiful that it must be very dear. What is the price?"