She came forward with outstretched hands. “André,” she asked with passionate eagerness, “you are safe?”
He took her to his breast, looking into her eyes. “Sweetheart,” he whispered, “why are you here?”
“Because you sent for me,” she began innocently.
“Sent for you?” he repeated, in dull bewilderment. “Mad,” he muttered, “mad, mad.” His brain was beginning to break down.
“Yes,” she whispered, for his face frightened her, “you sent for me. See; read.”
André took the strip of paper from her. After a few minutes he was able to spell out these words:
“I am in great danger. You alone can save me. Come at once to Paris. Carrefour de St. Antoine No. 3.
“André.”
The paper dropped. The writing was his, at least it appeared to be. Could he have written it? He searched his whirling thoughts, recalling the events of this awful night following on the King’s illness, the strain of waiting in Madame de Pompadour’s room after the scene at the inn, the discovery of Denise, the interviews that followed, the finding of the Chevalier and Mont Rouge, the gallop to Paris, and then all that had happened in this salon. He snatched at the paper again; he had not written it; no, it was a clever forgery, the work of the only woman who could do it—“No. 101.”
Denise was watching him in terror, for his lips moved, yet he said nothing.