"If you would be so kind! Only, I don't like to be a nuisance—"
He smiled deceptively: "Don't worry about that. Where do you wish to go?"
"To the Gare du Nord."
That made him open his eyes. "The Gare du Nord!" he echoed. "But—I beg your pardon—"
"I wish to take the first train for London," the girl informed him calmly.
"You'll have a while to wait," Lanyard suggested. "The first train leaves about half-past eight, and it's now not more than five."
"That can't be helped. I can wait in the station."
He shrugged: that was her own look-out—if she were sincere in asserting that she meant to leave Paris; something which he took the liberty of doubting.
"You can reach it by the Métro," he suggested—"the Underground, you know; there's a station handy—St. Germain des Prés. If you like, I'll show you the way."
Her relief seemed so genuine, he could have almost believed in it. And yet—!
"I shall be very grateful," she murmured.
He took that for whatever worth it might assay, and quietly fell into place beside her; and in a mutual silence—perhaps largely due to her intuitive sense of his bias—they gained the boulevard St. Germain. But here, even as they emerged from the side street, that happened which again upset Lanyard's plans: a belated fiacre hove up out of the mist and ranged alongside, its driver loudly soliciting patronage.
