She was looking at me composedly from under level brows. I observed that her hand was on the bell-cord.
“Monsieur,” she said—and oh, how well I remembered her voice—“if you move, or make a sound, I pull the bell. My servants are within a moment’s call. You will be overpowered immediately.”
“Mademoiselle,” I returned, disguising my natural voice as well as I could and thanking the Lord that my French was perfect, and that in the dim light, she did not recognize me apparently, “I am at your service.”
“I wish,” she continued, “to talk with you. The situation amuses me.”
She spoke as she might in the presence of some new spectacle. Her manner assured me that her interest in me was entirely impersonal. She was tired and bored. This was a new experience apparently which she wished to make the most of. I could think of nothing adequate to say, so I bowed profoundly.
“What is your name and what are you doing here?”
“My name, Mademoiselle, matters nothing.” In my agitation I forgot, and spoke in my natural voice. She started as she lifted the candle and looked keenly at me.
“Why!” she exclaimed, “’tis the man of the highway!”
I do not know whether I was glad or sorry to hear her say those words. At first I thought to deny it, but somehow it was impossible.
“You have discovered me, Mademoiselle,” I said.