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diamonds at her throat, and the pearl-and-diamond drops in her ears were more than enough temptation for such street hooligans.
    They arrived at the French theatre on Montgomery Street fifteen minutes later, and found themselves in a crush of carriages trying to get into position at the front of the theatre, where the sidewalk was broader and two wide steps were in place for those leaving their carriages. Ushers were at the edge of this boardwalk helping the arriving audience to alight.
    “I don’t think I can get much closer, Madame, not in another ten minutes, and you would then be late,” said Enrique as he looked over the line of vehicles waiting to discharge their fares. “It is less than a block from here.”
    “It is satisfactory, Enrique,” said Madelaine with decision, handing him a small tip. “I will walk the rest of the way; if you will watch me, to be sure I am not—”
    “I will watch, Madame,” he said, drawing up his carriage to the boardwalk. “Do you need the steps let down?”
    “No,” she replied, “I can manage well enough. The street is well-lit and I doubt anyone will opportune me with so much activity about.” With that, she opened the door panel, set the rug aside, and stepped down from the carriage into the street, swinging the door behind her to close it. She was about to turn when she felt her cloak snag on the door-latch; as she struggled to free it, she stumbled back against the coach.
    “Allow me, Madame,” said a voice from behind her; William Sherman reached out and freed her cloak, then held out his hand to assist her to the wide, wooden sidewalk. “Good evening, and permit me to say that I am surprised to see you here.”
    “At the French theatre? Where else should I be?” Madelaine recovered her poise at once. “Thank you for your concern, Mister Sherman. Why should you be surprised.”
    He looked at his pocket-watch. “The curtain will rise in five minutes. You will have to join your company at once.”
    “Then we will have to hurry,” said Madelaine, starting along the boardwalk in the direction of the French theatre. “But there is no one I am joining, Mister Sherman. Or who is joining me. I am a Frenchwoman here for the pleasure of hearing her own language spoken, not to indulge society.”
    “Surely you do not intend to go to the theatre unescorted?” He gazed at her in dismay. “No, no, Madame, you must not.”
    “But why?” she asked reasonably. “I have attended the theatre alone in London.” As soon as she said it, she realized she had slipped; it was rare for her to make such an error.
    “Never tell me you went alone to the theatre as a child,” he countered. “Not even French parents are so indulgent.”
    “Not as a child, no,” she allowed, irritated that her tongue should have got her into such a pass with Sherman, of all people.
    He stopped walking, and looked down at her, cocking his head; the lamplight made his red hair glow like coals. “As a gentleman, I should never ask a lady this question, but I fear I must.”
    She returned his look. “What question is that? I have told you the truth, Mister Sherman.”
    “Of that I have no doubt,” he answered, so directly that she was startled. “I can perceive the truth of you as if it grew from you on stalks. No, the question I ought not to ask is, how old are you?” Before she could answer, he added, “Because I have received an accounting of your money in the Saint Louis office of Lucas and Turner, and with it a portrait and a description to verify your identity. It would seem that you have not altered in the last decade. You appeared to be about twenty when you first went there, and you appear to be about twenty now.”
    Very carefully she said, “If I told you when I was born, you would not believe me.”
    He studied her eyes and was satisfied. “That, too, is the truth.” He again looked at his pocket-watch. “We are going to miss the curtain.”
    “Does this mean you are