The dispenser of cars bowed.

"Can you get a taxi for me?" Audrey suggested. "I will leave this roll here
and this bag," producing her old handbag which she had concealed under her
coat. And she thought: "All this is really very simple."

At the other address which she had found in the telephone book--a house in
the Rue d'Aumale--she said to an aged concierge:

"Monsieur Foa--which floor?"

A very dark, rather short and negligently dressed man of nearly middle-age
who was descending the staircase, raised his hat with grave ceremony:

"Pardon, Madame. Foa--it is I."

Audrey was not prepared for this encounter. She had intended to compose her
face and her speech while mounting the staircase. She blushed.

"I come from Musa--the violinist," she began hesitatingly. "You invited
him to play at your flat on Friday night, Monsieur."

Monsieur Foa gave a sudden enchanting smile:

"Yes, Madame. I hear much good of him from my friend Dauphin, much good.
And we long to hear him play. It appears he is a great artist."

"He has had an accident," said Audrey. Monsier Foa's face grew serious. "It
is nothing--a few days. The elbow--a trifle. He cannot play next Friday.