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.

"Is this the Rue d'Hollande?" Lisa enquired of the driver, jumping
quickly up and putting her head out of the window.

"_Mais oui, Mademoiselle_," I heard the man answer.

"Then stop where you are, please, until I give you new orders."

"I should have thought this was the sort of street where nothing could
possibly happen," said I.

"Wait a little, and maybe you'll find out you're mistaken. If nothing
does, and we aren't amused, we can go on somewhere else."

She had not finished speaking when a handsome electric carriage spun
almost noiselessly round the corner. It slowed down before a gate set in
a high wall, almost covered with creepers, and though the street was
dimly lighted and we had stopped at a little distance, I could see that
the house behind the wall, though not large, was very quaint and pretty,
an unusual sort of house for Paris, it seemed to me.

Scarcely had the electric carriage come to a halt when the chauffeur, in
neat, dark livery, jumped down to open the door; and quickly a tall,
slim woman sprang out, followed by another, elderly and stout, who
looked like a lady's maid.

I could not see the face of either, but the light of