Her father and Alden had entered the little room for an undisturbed chat and had not troubled to switch the light on. Many people like to talk in the dark; J.J. Oppner was one of them. Hidden amid the cushions of the big chair, she had not been seen. Since they had found the room in darkness, her presence had not been suspected. And what had she thus overheard?
A plot to capture Séverac Bablon!
Now, indeed, she was face to face with the hard facts of her situation. What should she do? What could she do?
He must be warned. It was impossible to think of seeing him a prisoner—seeing him in the dock like a common felon. It was impossible to think of meeting his eyes, his grave, luminous eyes, and reading reproach there!
But how should she act? This was Tuesday, and they had spoken of Wednesday as the day when the attempt was to be made. If only she had a confidant! It was so hard to come, unaided, to a decision respecting the right course to follow.
Laurel Cottage, Dulwich Village, that was the address which he had confided to her. But how should she get there? To go in the car was tantamount to taking the chauffeur into her confidence. She must go, then, in a cab.
Zoe was a member of that branch of American society which laughs at the theory of chaperons. There was nothing to prevent her going where she pleased, when she pleased, and how she pleased. Her mind, then, was made up very quickly.
She ran to her room, and without troubling her maid, quickly changed into a dark tweed costume and put on one of those simple, apparently untrimmed hats which the masculine mind values at about three-and-nine, but which actually cost as much as a masculine dress suit.
Fearful of meeting her father in the lifts, she went down by the stair, and slipped out of the hotel unnoticed.
"A cab, madam?"