“It sounds simple enough,” said Ivor, “if that’s all.”

“It is all.  Yet it may be anything but simple.”

“Would you prefer to have me call at her house, and save her coming to a hotel?  I’d willingly do so if—­”

“No.  As I told you, should it be known that you and she meet, those who are watching her at present ought not to suspect the real motive of the meeting.  So much the better for us:  but we must think of her.  After four o’clock every afternoon, the young Frenchman she’s engaged to is in the habit of going to her house, and stopping until it’s time for her to go to work.  He dines with her, but doesn’t drive with her to the theatre, as that would be rather too public for the present, until their engagement’s announced.  He adores her, but is inconveniently jealous, like most Latins.  It’s practically certain that he’s heard your name mentioned in connection with hers, when she was in London, and as a Frenchman invariably fails to understand that a man can admire a beautiful woman without being in love with her, your call at her house might give Mademoiselle Maxine a mauvais quart d’heure.”

“I see.  But if she sends him away, and comes to my hotel—­”

“She’ll probably make some excuse about being obliged to go to the theatre early, and thus get rid of him.  She’s quite clever enough to manage that.  Then, as your own name won’t appear on any hotel list in the papers next day, the most jealous heart need have no cause for suspicion.  At the same time, if certain persons whom Mademoiselle—­and we, too—­have to fear, do find out that she has visited Ivor Dundas, who has assumed a false name for the pleasure of a private interview with her, interests of even deeper importance than the most desperate love affair may still, we’ll hope, be guarded by the pretext of your old friendship.  Now, you understand thoroughly?”

“I think so,” replied Ivor, very grave and troubled, I knew by the change in his manner, out of which all the gaiety had been slowly drained.  “I will do my very best.”

“If you are sacrificing any important engagements of your own for the next two days, you won’t suffer for it in the end,” remarked the Foreign Secretary meaningly.

No doubt Ivor saw the consulship at Algiers dancing before his eyes, bound up with an engagement to Di, just as a slice of rich plum cake and white bride cake are tied together with bows of satin ribbons sometimes, in America.  I didn’t want him to have the consulship, because getting that would perhaps mean getting Di, too.

“Thank you,” said Ivor.

“And what hotel shall you choose in Paris?” asked the Foreign Secretary.  “It should be a good one, I don’t need to remind you, where Mademoiselle de Renzie could go without danger of compromising herself, in case she should be recognised in spite of the veil she’s pretty certain to wear.  Yet it shouldn’t be in too central a situation.”