"I feared as much," she said, "so I came. But it was unwise of you; it was madness to risk the streets." Her eyes left his face, to scan the crowds.
He fancied she shrank from them, as if fearing observation. Van Dam was puzzled. Her voice and manner undoubtedly betrayed a genuine emotion, or else she was a consummate actress. If this were some Mardi Gras prank, he felt a desire to see the next move. If it proved to be anything more, he fancied that he was too sophisticated to be caught and fleeced like a countryman. But something told him that this was no ordinary street flirtation. The words "warning," "risk" seemed to promise entertainment. If, as he suspected, she had mistaken him for some one else, a brief masquerade could lead to no harm. He decided to see how far he could carry the deception.
"What warning could serve to prevent my seeing you?" he asked in a hollow voice; then was surprised at the flush that stole upward to the girl's dainty ear.
"You are indeed insane to jest at such a time," she breathed. "I would never have known you without the flower. But come—we are in danger here. Some one—is waiting. Will you follow me?"
"To the ends of the earth," he replied, gallantly.
Again she gave him a startled glance, half of pleasure, half of deprecation; then, as he made a movement to accompany her, she checked him.
"No, no! You must let me go ahead. They are everywhere. They may suspect even my disguise. I—I am dreadfully afraid."
Van Dam scarcely knew how to answer this. So, like a wise man, he held his tongue.
"Listen!" she continued. "I will walk slowly, and do you remain far enough behind for your own safety—"
"My safety is as nothing to yours," he told her, but she shook her head impatiently.