“Have you really ordered a motor cab?” I asked.

“Yes,” said she.  “I rang for a waiter, and sent him down to tell the big porter at the front door to get me one.  Then I gave him five francs, and said I did not want anybody to know, because I must visit a poor, sick friend who had written to say she was in great trouble, but wished to tell no one except me that she’d come to Paris.”

“I shouldn’t have thought such an elaborate story necessary to a waiter,” I remarked, tossing up my chin a little, for I don’t like Lisa’s subterranean ways.  But this time she didn’t even try to defend herself.

“Let’s get ready at once,” she said.  “I’m going to put on my long travelling cloak, to cover up this dress, and wear my black toque, with a veil.  I suppose you’ll do the same?  Then we can slip out, and down the ‘service’ stairs.  The carriage is to wait for us at the side entrance.”

I looked at her, trying to read her secretive little face.  “Lisa, are you planning to go somewhere in particular, do something you want to ‘spring’ on me when it’s too late for me to get out of it?”

“How horrid of you to be so suspicious of me!  You do hurt my feelings!  I haven’t had an inspiration yet, so I can’t make a plan.  But it will come; I know it will.  I shall feel where we ought to go, to be in the midst of an adventure—­oh, without being mixed up in it, so don’t look horrified!  I told you that something was going to happen, and that I wanted to be in it.  Well, I mean to be, when the inspiration comes.”

We put on our dark hats and long travelling cloaks.  I pinned on Lisa’s veil, and my own.  Then she peeped to see if anyone were about; but there was nobody in the corridor.  We hurried out, and as Lisa already knew where to find the ‘service’ stairs, we were soon on the way down.  At the side entrance of the hotel the motor-cab was waiting, and when we were both seated inside, Lisa spoke in French to the driver, who waited for orders.

“I think you might take us to the Rue d’Hollande.  Drive fast, please.  After that, I’ll tell you where to go next.”

“Is this your ’inspiration’?” I asked.

“I’m not sure yet.  Why?” and her voice was rather sharp.

“For no particular reason.  I’m a little curious, that’s all.”

We drove on for some minutes in silence.  I was sure now that Lisa had been playing with me, that all along she had had some special destination in her mind, and that she had her own reasons for wanting to bring me to it.  But what use to ask more questions?  She did not mean me to find out until she was ready for me to know.

She had told the man to go quickly, and he obeyed.  He rushed us round corners and through street after street which I had never seen before—­quiet streets, where there were no cabs, and no gay people coming home from theatres and dinners.  At last we turned into a particularly dull little street, and stopped.