With sudden resolve Louise sprang up the steps and approached her.  Any woman, she felt, in this emergency, was a welcome refuge.

“Who are you?” she asked eagerly, “and why have I been brought here?”

“Mademoiselle will come inside, please,” said the woman, with a foreign accent.  “It is cold in the night air, N’est-ce-pas?”

She turned to lead the way inside.  While Louise hesitated to follow the limousine started with a roar from its cylinders and disappeared down the driveway, the two men going with it.  The absence of the lamps rendered the darkness around the solitary house rather uncanny.  An intense stillness prevailed except for the diminishing rattle of the receding motor car.  In the hall was a light and a woman.

Louise went in.

CHAPTER XVI

MADAME CERISE, CUSTODIAN

The woman closed the hall door and locked it.  Then she led the way to a long, dim drawing-room in which a grate fire was smouldering.  A stand lamp of antique pattern but dimly illuminated the place, which seemed well furnished in an old fashioned way.

“Will not you remove your wraps, Mees—­Mees—­I do not know ma’m’selle’s name.”

“What is your own name?” asked Louise, coming closer to gaze earnestly into the other’s face.

“I am called Madame Cerise, if it please you.”

Her voice, while softened to an extent by the French accent, was nevertheless harsh and emotionless.  She spoke as an automaton, slowly, and pausing to choose her words.  The woman was of medium size, slim and straight in spite of many years.  Her skin resembled brown parchment; her eyes were small, black and beady; her nose somewhat fleshy and her lips red and full as those of a young girl.  The age of Madame Cerise might be anywhere between fifty and seventy; assuredly she had long been a stranger to youth, although her dark hair was but slightly streaked with gray.  She wore a somber-hued gown and a maid’s jaunty apron and cap.

Louise inspected her closely, longing to find a friend and protector in this curious and strange woman.  Her eyes were moist and pleading—­an appeal hard to resist.  But Madame Cerise returned her scrutiny with a wholly impassive expression.

“You are a French maid?” asked Louise, softly.

“A housekeeper, ma’m’selle.  For a time, a caretaker.”

“Ah, I understand.  Are your employers asleep?”

“I cannot say, ma’m’seile.  They are not here.”

“You are alone in this house?”

“Alone with you, ma’m’seile.”

Louise had a sudden access of alarm.

“And why am I here?” she cried, wringing her hands pitifully.

“Ah, who can tell that?” returned the woman, composedly.  “Not Cerise, indeed.  Cerise is told nothing—­except what is required of her.  I but obey my orders.”

Louise turned quickly, at this.