“It’s a trap!” Rosemary moaned.
Not so Jeanne. She pressed a button. They were in a French elevator. They went up.
Up, up they glided. The light of a door came, then faded, then another and yet another.
In consternation lest they crash at the top, Jeanne pressed a second button. They came to a sudden halt. A light shone above them. A second, slower upward glide and they were before still another door. The door swung open. Still filled with wild panic, they rushed into a room where all was dark, and lost themselves in a perfect labyrinth where costumes by hundreds hung in rows.
Crowded together, shoulder to shoulder, with scarcely room to breathe, they stood there panting, waiting, listening.
Slowly their blood cooled. No sound came to their waiting ears. Still Jeanne felt Rosemary’s heart beating wildly.
“To her I am a knight,” she thought. “I am Pierre.”
Then a thought struck her all of a heap. “Perhaps I am not Pierre to her. She may suspect. Yes, she may know!” A cold chill gripped her heart. “If she finds out, what an impostor she will believe me to be!
“And yet,” she thought more calmly, “I have meant no wrong. I only wanted to be near the opera, to be ready for any great good fortune that might befall me.
“Besides, how could she know? Who would tell her? The lady in black? But how could she know? No! No! My secret is safe.