I prefer to throw myself on your generosity—and already I've strained your patience—"
"Not much," he interrupted in a soothing voice. "But—half a moment—we must talk this over."
Directing the cocher to drive to the place Pigalle, he re-entered the cab, suspicion more than ever rife in his mind. But as far as he could see—with that confounded sergo staring!—there was nothing else for it. He couldn't stand there in the rain forever, gossiping with a girl half-hysterical—or pretending to be.
"You see," she explained when the fiacre was again under way, "I thought I had a hundred-franc note in my pocketbook; and so I have—but the pocketbook's back there, in my room at Troyon's."
"A hundred francs wouldn't see you far toward New York," he observed thoughtfully.
"Oh, I hope you don't think—!"
She drew back into her corner with a little shudder of humiliation.
As if he hadn't noticed, Lanyard turned to the window, leaned out, and redirected the driver sharply: "Impasse Stanislas!"
Immediately the vehicle swerved, rounded a corner, and made back toward the Seine with a celerity which suggested that the stables were on the Rive Gauche.
"Where?" the girl demanded as Lanyard sat back. "Where are you taking me?"
"I'm sorry," Lanyard said with every appearance of sudden contrition; "I acted impulsively—on the assumption of your complete confidence. Which, of course, was
