me, monsieur," she said, "what had he done to you, this man Tapilow?"
I shook my head.
"You must forgive me," I said. "That is between him and me."
"And Monsieur Louis," she murmured.
"Louis knew nothing about it," I declared.
She seemed perplexed. She had evidently made up her mind that Louis had taken me there with the object of meeting Tapilow, and for some reason the truth was interesting to her.
"It was a quarrel about a woman, of course," she murmured—"the friend of monsieur, or perhaps a relation. I am jealous! Tell me, then, that it was a relation."
"Mademoiselle," I answered gravely, "I cannot discuss with you the cause of the quarrel between that man and myself. Forgive me if I remind you that it is a very painful subject. Forgive me if I remind you, too," I added, taking her other hand in mine for a moment, "that when I saw you scribble those few lines and send them across to me, and when I read what you said and came here, it was not to answer questions about any other person."
She raised her eyes to mine. They were curiously and wonderfully blue. Then she shook her head and withdrew her hands, sighing.
"But, monsieur," she said, "since then many things have happened. You must not show yourself about in Paris. It is better for you to go back to England."
"I am quite safe here," I declared.
"Then it has been arranged!" she exclaimed quickly. "Louis is, after all, monsieur's friend. He has perhaps seen—"
"We will not talk of these things," I begged. "I would rather—"
She started, and drew a little away, glancing nervously toward the door.
"I am terrified," she said. "Monsieur must come to my apartments one afternoon, where we can talk without fear. There is one more question, though," she continued rapidly. "Louis looked often at us. Tell me, did he say anything to you about Monsieur Bartot and myself?"
"Nothing," I answered, "except that Monsieur Bartot held a somewhat unique position in a certain corner of Paris, and that he was a person whom it was not well to offend."
"No more?" she asked.
"No more," I answered.
"I saw him point us out to you," she remarked.
"I asked him to show me the most beautiful woman in the room," I answered.
She shook her head.
"You are too much of a courtier for an Englishman," she said. "You do not mean what you say."
"Even an Englishman," I answered, "can find words when he is sufficiently moved."
I made a feint again to hold her hands, but she drew away.
"When are you going back to England?" she asked abruptly.
"To-morrow, I think," I answered, "if I am still free."
"Free!" she repeated scornfully. "If you are protected, who is there who will dare to touch you? Monsieur Decresson has all the police dancing to his bidding, and if that were not sufficient, Monsieur Bartot could rescue you even from prison. No, you are safe enough, monsieur, even if you remain here! It is Louis, eh, who is anxious for you to return to England?"
"My time was nearly up anyhow," I told her. "It is not until this moment that I have felt inclined to stay."
"Nevertheless," she murmured, "Monsieur goes to London to-morrow. Is it permitted to ask—"
"Anything," I murmured.
"If monsieur goes alone?"
"I fear so," I answered, "unless mademoiselle—"
She laid her fingers upon my lips.
"Monsieur does not know the elderly gentleman and the very beautiful girl who sat opposite him last night?" she asked—"Monsieur Delora and his niece?"
Somehow I felt convinced, the moment that the question had left her lips, that her whole interest in me was centred upon my reply. She concealed her impatience very well, but I realized that, for some reason or other, I was sitting there by her side solely that I might answer that question.
"I heard their names last night for the first time," I declared. "It was Louis who told me about them."
She looked at me for several moments as though anxious to be sure that I had spoken the truth.
"Mademoiselle!" I said reproachfully. "Let us leave these topics. I am not interested in the Deloras, or Louis, or Monsieur Bartot. Last night is finished, and to-morrow I leave. Let us talk for a few moments of ourselves."
She held up her finger suddenly.
"Listen!" she exclaimed, in a voice of terror.
Footsteps had halted outside the door. She ran to the window and looked down. In the street below was standing an automobile with yellow wheels. I was looking over her shoulder, and she clutched my arm.
"It is he—Bartot!" she cried. "He is here at the private entrance. Some one has told him that I am here. Mon Dieu! It is he outside now!"
It was bad acting, and I laughed.
"Mademoiselle," I said, "if Monsieur Bartot is your lover, be thankful that you have nothing with which to reproach yourself."
I rang the bell. She looked at me for a moment with eyes filled with a genuine fear. Obviously she did not understand my attitude. From my trousers pocket I drew a little revolver, whose settings and mechanism I carefully examined. There was a loud knock at the door and the sound of voices outside. Monsieur Bartot entered, in a frock-coat too small for him and a tie too large. When he saw us he fell back with a theatrical start.
"Susette!" he exclaimed. "Susette! And you, sir!" he added, turning to me.
He slammed the door and stood with his back to it.
"What the devil is the meaning of this?" he asked, looking from one to the other of us.
I shrugged my shoulders.
"You had better ask mademoiselle," I answered.
"She is, I believe, an acquaintance of yours. As for me—"
"My name is Bartot, sir," he cried fiercely.
"An excellent name," I answered, "but unknown to me. I do not yet understand by what right you intrude into a private room here."
He laughed hardly.
"'Intrude'!" he cried. "One does not call it that. 'Intrude,' when I find you two together, eh?"
I turned to the girl, who, with her handkerchief dabbed to her eyes, was still affecting a perfect frenzy of fear.
"Has
