They were all tumbling helter-skelter into the big town car, Jeanne, Florence, Rosemary, Jaeger, the “lady cop” and even Marjory Dean, when a dapper little man approached the car to ask for Petite Jeanne.
“She is here,” the “lady cop” informed him. Indeed she was, and wedged in so tight it was difficult to move.
“Ah! At last!” the little man sighed. “May I speak with her? It has been my privilege to bear a message from France.”
“A message!” Jeanne thrilled to the tips of her toes.
“I am afraid it is impossible.” The “lady cop’s” tone was business-like. “It is late. Our errand is of the greatest importance.”
“So, too, is my message. If you will permit, I shall accompany you.” Looking in the crowded car, he opened the driver’s door and, hearing no objections, took his place beside the chauffeur.
“And mystery still pursued her,” Florence whispered to herself, as she studied the back of the little Frenchman’s head.
Jeanne was crowded in between Rosemary and the “lady cop.” As Rosemary’s arm stole about her, still conscious of her dress suit and her masquerade, she moved uneasily.
“It’s all right, little French girl,” Rosemary whispered. “I have known all the time that you were Petite Jeanne and not Pierre.
“All the same,” she added, “I have enjoyed this little play at life quite as much as you.”