Four days went by. Soon my rest would be at an end, and I should be travelling at a moment’s notice with Blythe and Bindo to the farther end of Europe.
One evening I was passing through the great hall of the Hotel Cecil to descend to the American bar, where I frequently had a cocktail, when a neatly-dressed figure in black rose and greeted me. It was Julie, who had probably been awaiting me an hour or more.
“May I speak to you?” she asked breathlessly, when we had exchanged greetings. “I wish to apologise for the manner in which I treated you the other evening.”
I assured her that no apologies were needed, and together we strolled up and down the courtyard between the hotel entrance and the Strand.
“I really ought not to trouble you with my affairs,” she said presently, in an apologetic tone, “but you remember what I told you when you so kindly allowed me to travel with you—I mean of my peril?”
“Certainly. But I thought it was all over.”
“I foolishly believed that it was. But I am watched; I—I’m a marked woman.” Then, after some hesitation, she added, “I wonder if you would do me another favour. You could save my life, M’sieur Ewart—if you only would.”
“Well, if I can render you such a service, mademoiselle, I shall be only too delighted. As I told you the other day, my next journey is to Petersburg, and I may have to start any hour after midnight to-morrow. What can I do?”
“At present my plans are immature,” she answered after a pause. “But why not dine with me to-morrow night? We have some friends, but we shall be able to escape them, and discuss the matter alone. Do come.”