The watchman threw his light upon her face.
“Petite Jeanne!” he exclaimed. “But why the masquerade?” Tommy belonged to those other days and, with the rest, had come to love the simple, big-hearted little light opera star. “Petite Jeanne! But why—”
“Please don’t make me tell.” She gripped his arm. “Only let me out, and see me safe into a taxi. And—and—” She put a finger to her lips. “Don’t whisper a word.”
“I—it’s irregular, but I—I’ll do it,” he replied gallantly.
Jeanne gave his arm another squeeze and they were away.
Three minutes later, still dressed as Pierre, the usher, she was huddled on the broad seat of a taxi, speeding for home.
CHAPTER VIII
AN ISLAND MYSTERY
When Florence, whose work as physical director required her attention until late hours three nights in the week, arrived, she found the little French girl still dressed as Pierre, curled up in a big chair shuddering in the cold and the dark.
“Wh-what’s happened?” She stared at her companion in astonishment.
“N-n-nothing happened!” wailed Petite Jeanne. “That is why I am so very much afraid. They have said not one word to me about the pearls. They believe I have them. They will follow me, shadow me, search this place. Who can doubt it? Oh, mon Dieu! Such times! Such troubles!