Again he looked at her with a curiosity he could not cloak.
“Marie Douay’s daughter—so you are Marie Douay’s daughter!” he continued to mutter, as one who has recalled forgotten names and places. “Well, the world is small indeed. Do you know your way to the Place Kleber from here, child?”
She laughed at the doubt.
“Every inch of it.”
“Then I will say good-night.”
It was an abrupt invitation for her to leave him, and she did not misunderstand it. There was nothing odd in such a man telling her that here was the parting of the ways.
“I am sorry you will not come with me,” she repeated, when she stood at last upon the pavement. “Madame Hélène would have been so glad. Perhaps you will call to-morrow?”
He thrust his hand over the side of the cart and held hers for a moment in a clasp which almost crushed her fingers.
“God bless you, little passenger,” he said, ignoring her question. “Don’t forget old Richard Watts. And mind you keep your secrets.”
He was gone with the words, away into the shadows of the great city. She turned quickly toward her own home, for the bells of the churches were striking midnight. As the musical chimes rang out, they seemed to say, “Secrets, secrets—keep your secrets.”