“Good afternoon, Madame,” said a man in bad English.  For Audrey had misguided herself into the emporium.  She did not care to be addressed in her own tongue; she even objected to the instant discovery of her nationality, of which at the moment she was ashamed.  And so it was with frigidity that she inquired whether cars were to be hired.

The shopman hesitated.  Audrey knew that she had committed an indiscretion.  It was impossible that cars should be handed out thus unceremoniously to anybody who had the fancy to enter the shop!  Cars were naturally the subject of negotiations and references....  And then the shopman, espying the gold bag, and being by it and by the English frigidity humbled to his proper station, fawned and replied that he had cars for hire, and the best cars.  Did the lady want a large car or a small car?  She wanted a large car.  Did she want a town or a touring car?  She wanted a town car, and by the week.  When did she want it?  She wanted it at once—­in half an hour.

“I can hire you a car in half an hour, with liveried chauffeur,” said the shopman, after telephoning.  “But he cannot speak English.”

“Ca m’est egal,” answered Audrey with grim satisfaction.  “What kind of a car will it be?”

“Mercedes, Madame.”

The price was eight hundred francs a week, inclusive.  As Audrey was paying for the first week the man murmured: 

“What address, Madame?”

“Hotel du Danube,” she answered like lightning—­indeed far quicker than thought.  “But I shall call here for the car.  It must be waiting outside.”

The dispenser of cars bowed.

“Can you get a taxi for me?” Audrey suggested.  “I will leave this roll here and this bag,” producing her old handbag which she had concealed under her coat.  And she thought:  “All this is really very simple.”

At the other address which she had found in the telephone book—­a house in the Rue d’Aumale—­she said to an aged concierge: 

“Monsieur Foa—­which floor?”

A very dark, rather short and negligently dressed man of nearly middle-age who was descending the staircase, raised his hat with grave ceremony: 

“Pardon, Madame.  Foa—­it is I.”

Audrey was not prepared for this encounter.  She had intended to compose her face and her speech while mounting the staircase.  She blushed.

“I come from Musa—­the violinist,” she began hesitatingly.  “You invited him to play at your flat on Friday night, Monsieur.”

Monsieur Foa gave a sudden enchanting smile: 

“Yes, Madame.  I hear much good of him from my friend Dauphin, much good.  And we long to hear him play.  It appears he is a great artist.”

“He has had an accident,” said Audrey.  Monsier Foa’s face grew serious.  “It is nothing—­a few days.  The elbow—­a trifle.  He cannot play next Friday.  But he will be desolated if he may not play to you later.  He has so few friends....  I came....  I....”