As I sat down in the coupÉ, and Alphonse was about to close the door, I saw behind him a lady standing in the heavy downfall of rain. I said in my best French: “Get in, madame. I will get out and leave you the carriage.” For a moment she hesitated, and then got in and stood a moment, saying, “Thank you, but I insist that monsieur does not get out in the rain.” It was just then a torrent. “Let me leave monsieur where he would desire to go.” I said I intended to go to the Rue de la Paix, but I added, “If madame has no objection, may I not first drop her wherever she wishes to go?”

“Oh, no, no! It is far—too far.” She was, as it seemed to me, somewhat agitated. For a moment I supposed this to be due to the annoyance a ride with a strange man might have suggested as compromising, or at least as the Parisian regards such incidents. Alphonse waited calmly, the door still open.

Again I offered to leave her the carriage, and again she refused. I said, “Might I then ask where madame desires to go?”

She hesitated a moment, and then asked irrelevantly, “Monsieur is not French?”

“Oh, no. I am an American.”

“And I, too.” She showed at once a certain relief, and I felt with pleasure that had I been other than her countryman she would not have trusted me as she did. She added: “On no account could I permit you to get out in this storm. If I ask you to set me down in the Bois—I mean, if not inconvenient—”

“Of course,” I replied. “Get up, Alphonse.” It was, I thought, a rather vague direction, but there was already something odd in this small adventure. No doubt she would presently be more specific. “The Bois, Alphonse,” I repeated. A glance at my countrywoman left with me the impression of a lady, very handsome, about twenty-five, and presumably married. Why she was so very evidently perturbed I could not see. As we drove on I asked her for a more definite direction. She hesitated for a moment and then said Avenue du Bois de Boulogne.

“That will answer,” I returned. “But that is only a road, and it is raining hard. You have no umbrella. Surely you do not mean me to drop you on an open road in this storm.” I was becoming curious.

“It will do—it will do,” she said.

I thought it strange, but I called out the order to Alphonse and bade him promise a good pourboire.

As we drove away, all of the many people in the streets were hurrying to take refuge from the sudden and unexpected downfall of heavy rain. Women picked their way with the skill of the Parisienne, men ran for shelter, and the carriages coming in haste from the afternoon drives thronged the great avenue. The scene was not without amusement for people not subject to its inconvenience and to the damage of gay gowns. I made some laughing comment. She made no reply. Presently, however, she took out her purse and said, “Monsieur will at least permit me to—”

“Pardon me,” I returned gaily: “I am just now the host, and as it may never again chance that I have the pleasure of madame for a guest, I must insist on my privileges.”

For the first time she laughed, as if more at ease, and said, looking up from her purse and flushing a little: “Unluckily, I cannot insist, as I find that I am, for the time, too poor to be proud. I can only pay in thanks. I am glad it is a fellow-countryman to whom I am indebted.”

We seemed to be getting on to more agreeable social terms, and I expressed my regret that the torrent outside was beginning to leak in at the window and through the top of the carriage. For a moment she made no remark, and then said with needless emphasis:

“Yes, yes. It is dreadful. I hope—I mean, I trust—that it will never occur again.”

It was odd and hardly courteous. I said only, “Yes, it must be disagreeable.”

“Oh, I mean—I can’t explain—I mean this—special ride, and I—I am so wet.”

Of course I accepted this rather inadequate explanation of language which somehow did not seem to me to fit a woman evidently of the best social class. As if she too felt the need to substitute a material inconvenience for a less comprehensible and too abrupt statement, she added: “I am really drenched,” and then, as though with a return of some more urgent feeling, “but there are worse things.”

I said, “That may very well be.” I began to realize as singular the whole of this interview—the broken phrases which I could not interpret, the look of worry, the embarrassment of long silences.

After a time, at her request, we turned into one of the smaller avenues. Meanwhile I made brief efforts at impersonal talk—the rain, the vivid lightning,—wondering if it were the latter which made her so nervous. She murmured short replies, and at last I gave up my efforts at talk, and we drove on in silence, the darkness meanwhile coming the sooner for the storm.

By and by she said, “I owe you an apology for my preoccupation. I am—I have reason to be—troubled. You must pardon my silence.”

Much surprised, I acquiesced with some trifling remark, and we went on, neither of us saying a word, while the rain beat on the leaky cover of the carriage, and now and then I heard a loud “SacrÉ!” from the coachman as the lightning flashed.

It was now quite dark. We were far across the Bois and in a narrow road. To set her more at ease, I was about to tell her my name and official position, when of a sudden she cried:

“Oh, monsieur, we are followed! I am sure we are followed. What shall I do?”

Here was a not very agreeable adventure.

I said, “No, I think not.”

However, I did hear a carriage behind us; and as she persisted, I looked back and saw through the night the lamps of what I took to be a cabriolet.

As at times we moved more slowly, so it seemed did the cabriolet; and when our driver, who had no lights, saw better at some open place and went faster, so did the vehicle behind us. I felt sure that she was right, and to reassure her said: “We have two horses. He has one. We ought to beat him.” I called to Alphonse to tell the driver to drive as fast as he could and he should have a napoleon. He no doubt comprehended the situation, and began to lash his horses furiously. Meantime the woman kept ejaculating, “Mon Dieu!” and then, in English, “Oh, I am so afraid! What shall we do?” I said, “I will take care of you.” How, I did not know.

It was an awkward business—probably a jealous husband; but there was no time to ask for explanations, nor was I so inclined. It seemed to me that we were leaving our pursuers, when again I heard the vehicle behind us, and, looking back, saw that it was rapidly approaching, and then, from the movement of the lanterns, that the driver in trying to overtake us must have lost control of his horse, as the lights were now on this side of the road, now on that. My driver drew in to the left, close to the wood, thinking, I presume, that they would pass us.

A moment later there was a crash. One of our horses went down, and the cabriolet—the lighter vehicle—upset, falling over to the right. As we came to a standstill I threw open the left-hand door saying: “Get out, madame! Quick! Into the wood!” She was out in an instant and, favored by the gloom, was at once lost to sight among the thick shrubbery. I shut the door and got out on the other side. It was very dark and raining hard as I saw Alphonse slip away into the wood shadows. Next I made out the driver of the cabriolet, who had been thrown from his seat and was running up to join us.

In a moment I saw more clearly. The two coachmen were swearing, the horses down, the two vehicles, as it proved later, not much injured. A man was standing on the farther side of the roadway. I went around the fallen cab and said: “An unlucky accident, monsieur. I hope you are not hurt.” He was holding a handkerchief to his head.

“No, I am not much hurt.”

“I am well pleased,” said I, “that it is no worse.” I expected that the presumably jealous husband would at once make himself unpleasant. To my surprise, he stood a moment without speaking, and, as I fancied, a little dazed by his fall. Then he said:

“There is a woman in that carriage.”

I was anxious to gain time for the fugitive, and replied: “Monsieur must be under some singular misapprehension. There is no one in my carriage.”

“I shall see for myself,” he said sharply.

“By all means. I am quite at a loss to understand you.” I was sure that he would not be able to see her.

He staggered as he moved past me, and was evidently more hurt than he was willing to admit. I went quickly to my coachman, who was busy with a broken trace. Here was the trouble—the risk. I bent over him and whispered, putting a napoleon in his hand, “There was no woman in the carriage.”

“Two,” said the rascal.

“Well, two if you will lie enough.”

“Good! This sacrÉ animal! Be quiet!”

I busied myself helping the man, and a moment later the gentleman went by me and, as I expected, asked the driver. “There was a woman in your carriage?”

“No, monsieur; the gentleman was alone, and you have smashed my carriage. SacrÉ bleu! Who is to pay?”

“That is of no moment. Here is my card.” The man took it, but said doubtfully,

“That’s all well to-day, but to-morrow—”

“Stuff! Your carriage is not damaged. Here, my man, a half-napoleon will more than pay.”

The driver, well pleased with this accumulation of unlooked-for good fortune, expressed himself contented. The gentleman stood, mopping the blood from his forehead, while the two drivers set up the cabriolet and continued to repair the broken harness. Glad of the delay, I too, stood still in the rain saying nothing. My companion of the hour was as silent.

At last the coachmen declared themselves ready to leave. Upon this, the gentleman said to me: “You have denied, monsieur, that there was a woman with you. It is my belief that she has escaped into the wood.”

“I denied nothing,” said I. “I invited you to look for yourself. The wood is equally at your disposal. I regret—or, rather I do not regret—to be unable to assist you.”

Then, to my amazement, he said: “You, too, are in this affair, I presume. You will find it serious.”

“What affair? Monsieur is enigmatical and anything but courteous.”

“You are insulting, and my friends will ask you to-morrow to explain your conduct. I think you will further regret your connection with this matter.”

“With what matter?” I broke in. “This passes endurance.”

“I fancy you need no explanation. I presume that at least you will not hesitate to inform me of your name.”

As he spoke his coachman called out to him to hold his horse for a moment, and before I could answer, he turned aside toward the man. I followed him, took out my card-case, and said as I gave him a card, “This will sufficiently inform you who and what I am.”

As I spoke he in turn gave me his card, saying: “I am the Count le Moyne. I shall have the honor to ask through my friends for an explanation.”

He was evidently somewhat cooler. As he spoke I knew his name as that of a recently appointed under-secretary of the Foreign Office. I had never before seen him. As we parted I said:

“I shall be at home from eleven until noon to-morrow.”

We lifted our hats, and the two carriages having been put in condition, I drove away, with enough to think about and with some wonder as to what had become of Alphonse.