I was anxious to do so (see, I am telling all) and was watching the door of the lift from behind my journal, when they both stepped out.

Miss Willetts was dressed for the street, but Madame Duclos was not, which seemed very strange to me.

But I felt no concern till I caught some fragments of what Madame said in passing me.
She spoke in French, a language I understand, and she was exclaiming over her misfortune at not being allowed to accompany her young charge to whatever place she was going.

It was bad, bad, she cried, and she would not have a moment's peace till her dear Angeline got back.

Anxiety of this kind was natural in a Frenchwoman not accustomed to see a young lady enter the streets alone; but the force with which she expressed it betrayed a real alarm--an alarm which communicated itself to me.