I had drawn my veil down before walking out of the theatre, yet Godensky knew me at once, and came forward.  Evidently he had been watching the door.

“Good-evening,” he said.  “A hundred congratulations.”

He put out his hand, and I had to give him mine, for my chauffeur and the stage-door keeper (to say nothing of Marianne, who followed me closely), and several stage-carpenters, with other employes of the theatre, were within seeing and hearing distance.  I wanted no gossip, though that was exactly what might best please Count Godensky.

“I got your note,” I answered, in Russian, though he had spoken in French.  “What is it you want to see me about?”

“Something that can’t be told in a moment,” he said.  “Something of great importance.”

“I’m very tired,” I sighed.  “Can’t it wait until to-morrow?”

I tried to “draw” him, and to a certain extent, I succeeded.

“You wouldn’t ask that question, if you guessed what—­I know,” he replied.

Was it a bluff, or did he know—­not merely suspect—­something?

“I don’t understand you,” I said quietly, though my lips were dry.

“Shall I mention the word—­document?” he hinted.  “Really, I’m sure you won’t regret it if you let me drive home with you, Mademoiselle.”

“I can’t do that,” I answered.  “And I can’t take you into my carriage here.  But I’ll stop for you, and wait at the corner Rue Eugene Beauharnais.  Then you can go with me until I think it best for you to get out.”

“Very well,” he agreed.  “But send your maid home in a cab; I can not talk before her.”

“Yes, you can.  She knows no language except French—­and a little English.  She always drives home with me.”

This was true.  But if I had been talking to Raoul, I would perhaps have given the dear old woman her first experience of being sent off by herself.  In that case, she would not have minded, for she likes Raoul, admires him as a “dream of a young man,” and already suspected what I hadn’t yet told her—­that we were engaged.  But with Count Godensky forced upon me as a companion, I would not for any consideration have parted with Marianne.

Three or four minutes after starting I was giving instructions to my chauffeur where to stop, and almost immediately afterwards Godensky appeared.  He got in and took the place at my left, Marianne, silent, but doubtless astonished, facing us on the little front seat.

“Now,” I exclaimed.  “Please begin quickly.”

“Don’t force me to be too abrupt,” he said.  “I would spare you if I could.  You speak as if you grudged me every moment with you.  Yet I am here because I love you.”

“Oh, please, Monsieur!” I broke in.  “You know I’ve told you that is useless.”

“But everything is changed since then.  Perhaps now, even your mind will be changed.  That happens with women sometimes.  I want to warn you of a great danger that threatens you, Maxine.  Perhaps, late as it is, I could save you from it if you’d let me.”