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“Who is your master?” I asked, putting all the authority I could into my manner, and staring hard at the man. He was dressed like a chauffeur, and save for his black beard and moustache his face was almost hidden by the peak of his cap and a pair of hideous driving goggles.

“M. Boreski, m’sieur.” His French was that of an educated man, I thought.

“What are your instructions?”

“We are waiting for some one from the Palace, m’sieur.” The “we” struck me as peculiar. I stopped by the car and looked harder at him.

“You speak French with a good accent, my man,” I said, with some suspicion in my tone, and then the unexpected happened.

A girl, closely veiled, put her head out from the hood which covered the back seat, and with a dash of contempt said—

“The American will scarcely be afraid to trust himself with a woman.”

I gave a start of genuine pleasure. It was the girl who had spoken to me on the train.

“With you, mademoiselle, I would trust myself anywhere;” and without hesitation I took the seat by her side.