“My hat — my gloves — quick!”

“Yes, yes,” I said; “I will get a fiacre.”

“Why not my victoria?” she questioned imperiously.

“Because you must go in a closed carriage,” I said firmly.

“Mademoiselle will accept my brougham?”

A tall dark man had come forward. He was the Escamillo. She thanked him with a look. Some woman threw a cloak over Rosa’s shoulders, and, the baritone on one side of her and myself on the other, we left the theatre. It seemed scarcely a moment since she had entered it confident and proud.

During the drive back to her flat I did not speak, but I