I had kept my scrutiny under control, prepared for any sudden movement on the part of the girl; but after all she was too quick for me. She turned from the window with a perfectly natural movement, and yet so swiftly that our eyes met before I could look away. She leaned a little forward in her place, and her forehead darkened.

"Perhaps, sir," she said, "you will be good enough to tell me the meaning of your persistent impertinence?"



CHAPTER IX

A TRAVELLING ACQUAINTANCE

Her words were so unexpected that for a moment or two I was speechless. On the whole, I scarcely felt that I deserved the cold contempt of her voice or the angry flash in her eyes.

"I am afraid I don't understand you," I said. "If you refer to the fact that I was watching you with some interest at that moment, I suppose I must plead guilty. On the other hand, I object altogether to the term 'impertinence.'"

"And why do you object?" she asked, looking at me steadily, and beating with her little hand the arm-rest by her side. "If your behavior is not impertinence, pray what is it? We meet at the Opera. You look. It is not enough for you that you look once, but you look twice, three times. You come out on to the pavement to hear the address which my uncle gives the chauffeur. We go to a restaurant for supper, where only the few are admitted. You are content to be brought by a waiter, but you are there! You travel to England by the same train,—you walk up and down past my compartment. You presume to address me upon the boat. You give a fee to the guard that he should put us in your carriage. Yet you object to the term 'impertinence'!"

"I do," I answered, "most strongly. I consider your use of the word absolutely uncalled for."

She looked across at the sleeping man. He was breathing heavily, and was evidently quite unconscious of our conversation.

"Your standard of manners is, I am afraid, a peculiar one," she said. "In Paris one is used always to be stared at. Englishmen, I was told, behaved better."

She took up a magazine and turned away with a shrug of the shoulders. I leaned a little further forward in my place, and lowered my voice so as not to disturb the sleeping man.

"You are really unjust to me," I said. "I will plead guilty to noticing you at the Opera House, but I did so as I would have done any well-dressed young woman who formed a part of the show there. So far as regards my visit to the Cafe des Deux Epingles, I went at the suggestion of Louis, whom I met by accident, and who is the maitre d'hotel at my favorite restaurant. I had no idea that you were going to be there. On the contrary, I distinctly heard your companion tell your chauffeur to drive to the Ritz. I came on this train by accident, and although it is true that I spoke to you as I might have done to any other travelling companion, I deny that there was anything in the least impertinent either in what I said or how I said it. So far as regards your coming into this carriage," I added, "I feed the guard to keep it to myself, and although I will not say that your presence is unwelcome, it is certainly unsought for."

She was silent for a moment, watching me all the time intently. My words seemed to have given her food for thought.

"Listen," she said, leaning forward. "Do you mean to say that that was your first visit to the Cafe des Deux Epingles?"

"Absolutely my first visit," I answered. "I met Louis by accident that night. He knew that I was bored, and he took me there."

"You met him at the Opera and you asked him who we were," she remarked.

"That is quite true," I admitted, "but I scarcely see that there was anything impertinent in that. Afterwards we spoke together for a little time. I told him that I was alone in Paris and bored. It was because I was alone that we went out together."

Her forehead was wrinkled with perplexity. Her eyes seemed always to be seeking mine, as though anxious to learn whether I were indeed speaking the truth.

"I do not understand at all," she said. "You mean to tell me, then, that you know nothing of Louis except as a maitre d'hotel, that you were a chance visitor to Paris this week?"

"Absolutely," I answered.

Suddenly a thought seemed to occur to her. She drew away from me. In her eyes I seemed to see reflected the tragedy of those few moments in the Cafe des Deux Epingles.

"How can I believe you?" she exclaimed. "Remember that I saw you strike that man! It was horrible! I have never seen anything like it! You were like a wild animal! They tell me that he was very badly hurt. Is it true?"

"I believe so," I answered. "I am afraid that I hope so."

"And you," she continued, "go free! You have not even the air of one who flies for his life. Yet you tell me that you are not one of those—those—"

"Those what?" I asked eagerly.

"Those who frequent the Cafe des Deux Epingles," she said slowly,—"those who take advantage of the peculiar protection which some of those behind the scenes there are able to extend to their friends."

I shook my head.

"I know nothing of the place beyond that brief visit," I answered. "I know nothing of Louis except as a maitre d'hotel in my favorite restaurant. I know nothing of the people who frequent the Cafe des Deux Epingles except those I saw there that night. You," I added, "were one of them. I can assure you that when I went with Louis to that place I had not the slightest idea that I should meet the person whom I did meet."

"What is your name?" she asked abruptly.

I handed her my card. She read it with a perplexed face. The man opposite to her moved uneasily in his sleep. She crumpled the card up in her hands and remained for a few moments apparently deep in thought.

"You are an Englishman?" she asked, after a short pause.

"Decidedly!" I answered.

"I have not known many Englishmen," she said slowly. "I have lived in the country, near Bordeaux, and in Paris, most of my days. It is very certain, though, that I have never seen an Englishman like you. I was looking into your eyes when that man came into the room. I saw you rise to strike him."

She shuddered. I leaned across towards her.

"Listen," I said, "I do not wish you to think me worse than I am. You sympathize with that man whom I struck down. You look upon me as a sort of would-be assassin. You need not. I tell you, upon my honor, that if ever a man in this world deserved death, he deserved it."

"From you?" she asked.

"From me!" I answered firmly. "It was not, perhaps, a personal matter, but I have a brother,—listen, mademoiselle!" I continued. "He is a cripple. He was thrown from his horse—he was master of hounds in those days—and he has never been able to walk since. He was married to a woman whom he loved, a poor girl whom he had made wealthy, and to whom he had given a great position. She loved him, and she was content, after his accident, to give her life to him. Then that man came, the man whom you saw me punish. I tell you that this was no chance affair," I went on. "He set himself deliberately to win her heart. How far he succeeded I do not know. I can only tell you that she left my brother's home with him. The man was his guest at the time,—was his guest from the beginning of the affair."

The girl's eyes blazed. Even in that dim light I could see the dark blue fire in them.

"You did well!" she said. "For that I have no more to say. One who wrongs the helpless should be punished. But I do not understand this," she added. "I do not understand why those people at the Cafe des Deux Epingles should shield you when you are not one of them,—when you have no knowledge of any of them save the very slightest. They are not philanthropists, those people. Some day or other you will have to pay the price!"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"I have never refused to pay my just debts," I said. "If any one of them comes to me with a definite request which I can grant, you may be very sure that I shall grant it."

"You are not already their servant, then?" she asked. "You are sure, quite sure of that?"

"In what way?" I asked.

"You look honest," she said. "Perhaps you are. Perhaps I have doubted you without a cause. But I will ask you this question. Has it been suggested to you by any of them that you should watch us—my uncle and me?"

"On my honor, no!" I answered earnestly.

She was evidently puzzled. Little by little the animosity seemed to have died away from her face. She looked at the sleeping man thoughtfully, and then once more at me.

"Tell me," she said,—"do not think, please, that I am inquisitive, but I should like to believe that you are not one of those whom we need fear,—is Louis indeed an ordinary acquaintance of yours?"

"He is scarcely that," I answered. "He is simply the maitre d'hotel at a restaurant I frequent. I had never in my life seen him before, except in his restaurant. When he spoke to me at the Opera I did not for some time recognize him."

She appeared to be convinced, but still a little bewildered. She was silent.

"Don't you think," I said, after a short pause, "that it is almost my turn now to ask a few questions?"

She seemed surprised.

"Why not?" she asked.

"Tell me, you are not English," I said, "and you are not French. Yet you speak English so well."

She smiled.

"My father was a Frenchman and my mother a Spaniard," she answered. "I was born in South America, but I came to Europe when very young, and have lived in France always. My people"—she looked towards the sleeping man as though to include him—"are all coffee planters."

"You are going to stay long in London?" I asked.

"My uncle sells his year's crops there," she answered. "When he has finished his business we move on."

"Will you tell me, then," I asked, "why you, too, were at the Cafe des Deux Epingles? You admit that it is the resort of people of mysterious habits. What place had you there?"

She looked away from me for a moment. My question seemed to disconcert her, perhaps by reason of its directness.

"Well," she said, "my uncle has lived for many years in Paris. He knows it as well as the Parisians themselves. He has always had a taste for adventure, and I fancy that he has friends who are interested in the place. At any rate, I have been there with him two or three times, and he is always welcome."

"From what I have heard," I remarked, "I should imagine that you and I are the only people who have been allowed to go there without qualifications."

She glanced as though by accident at the sleeping man opposite. Then, as though conscious of what she had done, a spot of color burned in her cheeks. Since the anger which had first inspired her to speech had died away, her manner had been a little shy. I realized more and more that she must be quite young.

"Perhaps," she answered. "I do not understand the place or its habitues. I only know that while one is there, one must be careful."

"Tell me," I asked, "what are you going to do in London while your uncle looks after his business?"

"Amuse myself as best I can, I suppose," she answered carelessly. "There are always the shops, and the theatres in the evening."

"Where are you going to stay?" I inquired.

"At the Milan, I think," she answered.

Somehow her answer to my question struck me as ominous. To the Milan, of course, where Louis was all the time predominant! The girl might be innocent enough of all wrong-doing or knowledge of wrong-doing, but could one think the same of her uncle? I glanced at him instinctively. In sleep, his features were by no means prepossessing.

"I may come across you, then," I ventured.

She smiled at me. It was wonderful what a difference the smile made in her face. To me she seemed at that moment radiantly beautiful.

"It would be very pleasant," she said. "I know no one in London. I expect to be alone a great deal. You live in London?" she asked.

"As much there as anywhere," I answered. "I have never settled down since I sent in my papers."

"Why did you do that?" she asked.

"I was badly knocked about at Ladysmith," I answered, "and I could not get round in time. I haven't altogether finished soldiering, though," I added. "At least, I hope not."

"But where do you call your home, then?" she asked timidly.

"I am not one of those fortunate persons who possess one," I answered. "I spend a great deal of time in Norfolk with my brother, and I have just a couple of rooms in town."

The train had slackened speed. All around us was a wide-spreading arc of yellow lights. The clearness had gone from the atmosphere. The little current of air which came in through the half-open window was already murky and depressing.

"It is London?" she asked.

"We shall be there in ten minutes," I answered, looking out.

She leaned over and waked her uncle. He sat up drowsily.

"We shall be there in ten minutes," she said.

"So soon!" he answered. "Do you know on which side we arrive, sir?" he asked me.

"On your side," I answered.

He rose to his feet, and commenced to wrap a scarf around his neck.

"You will be smothered," the girl remarked.

"I am cold," he answered, in a low tone. "I am always cold after I have crossed the Channel. Besides, it is the damp air. You, too, will find it so in London, Felicia. You must be careful."

Already he was peering out of the window into the darkness. I could not help wondering whether it was sea-sickness alone which was responsible for his haggard features, for that grim look of covert fear which seemed to have settled around his mouth and eyes. To me he seemed like a man who is about to face the unknown, and who fears!

The train began to slacken pace. We drew into the station. I noticed that a man was standing by himself at this remote end of the platform, and that as we passed he seemed to look intently into our carriage.

"Can I be of any service to you?" I asked the girl, as I collected my small belongings. "I suppose, though, that your uncle is used to the journey."

She glanced towards the man opposite. He turned to me, and I found his appearance almost terrifying. He seemed to be suffering from more than physical sickness.

"I thank you, sir," he said rapidly. "You could, if you would, be of immense service."

"I should be delighted," I answered. "Tell me in what way?"

"I am exceedingly ill," the man said, with a groan. "I suffer from heart attacks, and the crossing has altogether upset me. If you could remain with my niece while our luggage is examined, and send her afterwards to the Milan Hotel, you would do a real favor to a sick man. I could myself take a hansom there without waiting for a moment, and get to bed. Nothing else will do me any good."

I glanced across at the girl. She was watching her uncle with distressed face.

"If you will allow me," I said, "it will give me very great pleasure to look after you. I am going to the Milan myself, and I, too, have luggage to be examined."

"It is very kind of you," she said hesitatingly. "Don't you think, though," she added, turning to her uncle, "that I had better go with you? We could send a servant for the luggage afterwards."

"No, no!" he objected impatiently. "I shall call at the chemist's. I shall get something that will put me right quickly."

"It is settled, then," I declared.

Apparently Delora thought so. The train had scarcely come to a standstill, but already he had descended. Avoiding the platform, he crossed straight on to the roadway, and was lost amidst the tangle of cabs. I turned to the girl, affecting not to notice his extraordinary haste.

"We will have our small things put into an omnibus," I said. "There will be plenty of time afterwards to come back and look for our registered luggage."

"You are very kind," she murmured absently.

Her eyes were still watching the spot where her companion had disappeared.



CHAPTER X

DELORA DISAPPEARS

I was fortunate enough to find a disengaged omnibus, and filled it with our rugs and smaller belongings. Then we made our way slowly back to the little space prepared for the reception of the heavier baggage, and around which a barrier had already been erected. There was a slight nervousness in my companion's manner which made conversation difficult. I, too, could not help feeling that the situation was a difficult one for her.

"I am afraid," I remarked, "that you are worried about your uncle. Is his health really bad, or is this just a temporary attack? I thought he looked well enough in the train on the other side."

"He suffers sometimes," she answered, "but I do not think it is anything really serious."

"He will be all right by the time we get to the hotel," I declared.

"Very likely," she answered. "For myself, I think that I always feel a little nervous when I arrive at a strange place. I have never been here before, you know, and I could not help wondering, for a moment, what would become of me if my uncle were really taken ill. Everyone says that London is so big and cold and heartless."

"You would have nothing to fear," I assured her. "You forget, too, that your uncle has friends here."

We leaned over the barrier and watched the luggage being handed out of the vans and thrown on to the low wooden platforms. By my side a dark young man, with sallow features and pince nez, was apparently passing his time in the same manner. My companion, who was restless all the time, glanced at him frequently, or I should scarcely have noticed his existence. In dress and appearance he resembled very much the ordinary valet in private service, except for his eye-glasses, and that his face lacked the smooth pastiness of the class. For some reason or other my companion seemed to take a dislike to him.

"Come," she said to me, "we will move over to the other side. I think we shall get in quicker."

I followed her lead, and I saw her glance back over her shoulder at the young man, who seemed unaware, even, of her departure.

"I do hate being listened to," she said, "even when one is talking about nothing in particular!"

"Who was listening to us?" I asked.

"The young man next to you," she answered. "I could see him look up in that horrid stealthy way from under his eyelids."

I laughed.

"You are a very observant person," I remarked.

She drew a little closer to me. Somehow or other I found the sense of her near presence a delightful thing. All her garment seemed imbued with a faint perfume, as though of violets.

"I think that I have only become so quite lately," she said. "Perhaps it is because I have lived such a quiet life, and now things are so different. My uncle has been so mysterious, especially during the last few days, and I suppose it has made me suspicious. Wherever we go, I always seem to fancy that some one is watching us. Besides, I am sure that that young man was a South American, and I hate South Americans!"

"I fancy," I said, "that the attention he bestowed upon us was due to a more obvious cause."

"Please do not talk like that," she begged. "I do not wish for compliments from you. I have been told always that Englishmen are so truthful. One has compliments from Frenchmen, from Spaniards, and from South Americans. They fall like froth from their lips, and one knows all the time that it means nothing, and less than nothing. It is such a pity!"

"Why a pity?" I asked, more for the sake of keeping her talking than anything. "Certainly it is a picturesque habit of speech."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I do not like it," she said quietly. "By degrees, one comes to believe nothing that any man says, even when he is in earnest. Remember, Capitaine Rotherby, I hope that I shall never hear a compliment from you."

"I will be careful," I promised her, "but you must remember that there is sometimes a very fine distinction. I may be driven to say something which sounds quite nice, because it is the truth."

She laughed at me with her eyes, a habit of hers which from the first I had admired. For the moment she seemed to have forgotten her anxieties.

"You are worse than these others," she murmured. "I believe—no, I am quite sure, that you are more dangerous! Come, they are ready for us."

The barriers were thrown open, and a little stream of people entered the enclosed space. My companion's trunks were all together, and easily found. The officer bent over, chalk in hand, and asked a few courteous questions. At that moment I became aware that the young man in eye-glasses was standing once more by my side. Her trunks were promptly marked, and I directed the porter to take them to our omnibus. Then we moved on a little to where my things were. The young man sauntered behind us, and stopped to light a cigarette. My companion's fingers fell upon my arm.

"He is everywhere!" she murmured. "What does he want?"

I turned round sharply and caught him in the act of inspecting my labels. I was beginning now to lose my temper.

"May I ask," I said, standing in his way, "to what we owe—this young lady and I—your interest in us and our concerns?"

He stared at me blankly.

"I do not understand you, sir," he said.

I was foolish enough to lose my temper. A policeman was standing within a few feet of us, and I appealed to him.

"This person annoys us," I said, pointing him out, "by following us everywhere we go. The young lady is carrying a jewel-case, and I have papers of some importance myself. Will you kindly ask him to move on, or ascertain whether he is a bona fide traveller?"

The young man smiled faintly. The policeman answered me civilly, but I knew at once that I had made a mistake.

"This gentleman is well known to us, sir," he said. "I do not think you will find him causing you any trouble."

"I hope, at any rate," I said, turning away, "that we have seen the last of him."

Apparently we had,—for the moment, at any rate. I claimed my own belongings, and had them sent down to the omnibus. Then I handed my companion in and was on the point of joining her, when I saw walking along the platform, within a few feet of us, the policeman to whom I had appealed. I turned back to him.

"I wonder," I said, drawing him a little on one side, "if you would care to earn a sovereign without committing a breach of duty?"

He looked at me stolidly. Apparently he thought that silence was wisest.

"You said that that young man who followed us about here was well known to you," I said. "Who is he?"

"It is not my place to tell you, sir," the man answered, and passed on.

I stepped into the 'bus and we drove off. As we turned out of the station I caught a last glimpse of our shadower. He was standing close to the main exit with his hands behind him, looking up to the sky as though anxious to discover whether it were still raining. He looked into our 'bus as it clattered by, and my companion, who caught sight of him, leaned back in her seat.

"I am sure," she declared firmly, "that that is a detective."

I was equally certain of it, but I only laughed.

"If he is," I said, "it is certainly not you who needs to be anxious. There can be no question as to whom he is watching. You must remember that although those mysterious people up at the Place d'Anjou may be powerful in their way, they would have to be very clever indeed to protect me absolutely. It is pretty well known over here that I had threatened to kill Tapilow wherever I met him."

She looked at me for a moment, doubtfully, and then she shook her head.

"It is not you whom they are watching," she said.

"Who, then?" I asked.

"My uncle and me," she answered.

I looked at her curiously.

"Tell me," I said, "why you think that? Your uncle is a man of position, and has legitimate business here. Why should he be watched by detectives?"

She shook her head.

"I suppose it is because we are foreigners," she said, "but ever since my uncle fetched me from Bordeaux we seem to have been watched by some one wherever we go."

"You will not suffer much from that sort of thing over here," I remarked cheerfully. "England is not a police-ridden country like Germany, or even France."

"I know," she answered, "and yet I have told you before how I feel about arriving in England. There seems something unfriendly in the very atmosphere, something which depresses me, which makes me feel as though there were evil times coming."

I laughed reassuringly.

"You are giving way to fancies," I said. "I am sure that London is doing its best for you. See, the rain is all over. We have even continental weather to welcome you. Look at the moon. For London, too," I added, "the streets seem almost gay."

She leaned out of the window. A full moon was shining in a cloudless sky. The theatres were just over. The pavements were thronged with men and women, and the streets were blocked with carriages and hansoms on their way to the various restaurants. At the entrance to the Milan our omnibus was stopped for several moments whilst motors and carriages of all descriptions, with their load of men and women in evening clothes, passed slowly by and turned in at the courtyard. We found ourselves at last at the doors of the hotel, and I received the usual welcome from my friend the hall-porter.

"Back again once more, you see, Ashley," I remarked. "I have brought Miss Delora on from the station. Her uncle is here already. We came over by the same train."

The reception clerk stepped forward and smilingly acknowledged my greeting. He bowed, also, to my companion.

"We are very pleased to see you, Miss Delora," he said. "We were expecting you and Mr. Delora to-night."

"My uncle came on at once from the station," she said, "He was not feeling very well."

The clerk bowed, but seemed a little puzzled.

"Will you tell me where I can find Mr. Delora?" she asked.

"Mr. Delora has not yet arrived, madam," the clerk answered.

She looked at him for a moment, speechless.

"Not arrived?" I interrupted. "Surely you must be mistaken, Dean! He left Charing Cross half an hour before us."

The clerk shook his head.

"I am quite sure, Captain Rotherby," he said, "that Mr. Delora has not been here to claim his rooms. He may have entered the hotel from the other side, and be in the smoking-room or the American bar, but he has not been here."

There was a couch close by, and my companion sat down. I could see that she had turned very white.

"Send a page-boy round the hotel," I told the hall-porter, "to inquire if Mr. Delora is in any of the rooms. If I might make the suggestion," I continued, turning towards her, "I would go upstairs at once. You may find, after all, that Mr. Dean has made a mistake, and that your uncle is there."

"Why, yes!" she declared, jumping up. "I will go at once. Do you mind—will you come with me?"

"With pleasure!" I answered.

I paused for a moment to give some instructions about my own luggage. Then I stepped into the lift with the clerk and her.

"Your uncle, I hope, is not seriously indisposed, Miss Delora?" he asked.

"Oh, no!" she answered. "He found the crossing very rough, and he is not very strong. But I do not think that he is really ill."

"It is a year since we last had the pleasure," the clerk continued.

She nodded.

"My uncle was over then," she remarked. "For me this is the first time. I have never been in England before."

The lift stopped.

"What floor are we on?" the girl asked.

"The fifth," the clerk answered. "We have quite comfortable rooms for you, and the aspect that your uncle desired."

We passed along the corridor and he opened the door, which led into a small hall and on into a sitting-room. The clerk opened up all the rooms.

"You will see, as I told you before, Miss Delora," he said, "that there is no one here. Your uncle's rooms open out from the right. The bathroom is to the left there, and beyond are your apartments."

She peered into each of the rooms. They were indeed empty.

"The apartments are very nice," she said, "but I do not understand what has become of my uncle."

"He will be up in a few minutes, without a doubt," the clerk remarked. "Is there anything more that I can do for you, madam? Shall I send the chambermaid or the waiter to you?"

"Not yet," she answered. "I must wait for my uncle. Will you leave word below that he is to please come up directly he arrives?"

"Certainly, madam!" the clerk answered, turning towards the door.

I should have followed him from the room, but she stopped me.

"Please don't go," she said. "I am very foolish, I know, but I am afraid!"

"I will stay, of course," I answered, sitting down by her side upon the couch, "but let me assure you that there is nothing whatever to fear. Your uncle may have had a slight cab accident, or he may have met with a friend and stopped to talk for a few minutes. In either case he will be here directly. London, you know, is not the city of mysteries that Paris is. There is very little, indeed, that can happen to a man between Charing Cross Station and the Milan Hotel."

She leaned forward a little and buried her face in her hands.

"Please don't!" I begged. "Indeed, I mean what I say! There is no cause to be anxious. Your uncle spoke of stopping at a chemist's. They may be making up his prescription. A hundred trivial things may have happened to keep him."

"You do not know!" she murmured.



CHAPTER XI

THROUGH THE TELEPHONE

There was no doubt about it that Delora had disappeared. I followed the reception clerk downstairs myself within the space of a few minutes, and made the most careful inquiries in every part of the hotel. It did not take me very long to ascertain, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he was not upon the premises, nor had he yet been seen by any one connected with the place. I even walked to the corner of the courtyard and looked aimlessly up and down the Strand. Within those few hundred yards which lay between where I was standing and Charing Cross something had happened which had prevented his reaching the hotel. It may have been the slightest of accidents. It might be something more serious. Or it might even be, I was forced to reflect, that he had never intended coming! Presently I returned to the suite of rooms upon the fifth floor to make my report to Miss Delora. I found her calmer than I had expected, but her face fell when I was forced to confess that I had heard no news.

"I am sorry," I said, "but there is no doubt that up to the present, at any rate, your uncle has not been here. I am quite sure, though," I added, "that there is no cause for alarm. A hundred slight accidents might have happened to detain him for half an hour or so."

She glanced at the clock.

"It is more than that," she said softly.

"Tell me," I asked, "would you like me to communicate with the police? They are in touch with the hospitals, and if any misfortune has happened to your uncle—which, after all, is scarcely likely—we should hear of it directly."

She shook her head vigorously. The idea, for some reason, seemed to displease her.

"No!" she said. "Why should we appeal to the police? What have they to do with my uncle? I am quite sure that he would not wish that."

"I presume," I said, "that nothing of this sort has ever happened before?—I mean that he has not left you without warning?"

"Not under the same circumstances," she admitted. "And yet, he has a very queer way of absenting himself every now and then."

"For long?" I asked.

"It depends," she answered. "Never for any length of time, though."

"After all," I remarked, "you cannot have seen such a great deal of him. He lives in South America, does he not, and you have never been out of France?"

"It is true," she murmured.

"I noticed," I continued thoughtfully, "that he seemed disturbed as we neared London."

She drew out the pins from her hat, and with a little gesture of relief threw it upon the table.

"Please sit down for a minute," she said. "I want to think."

She leaned forward upon the couch, her head buried in her hands. I felt that she desired silence, so I said nothing. Several moments passed, then there came a sudden and unexpected interruption. The bell of the telephone instrument, which stood between us upon the table, commenced to ring. Her hands fell from before her face. She looked across at me with parted lips and wide-open eyes. I made a movement towards the instrument, but she checked me.

"Stop!" she said. "Wait a moment! Let me think!"

She had risen to her feet. We stood looking at one another across the table. Between us was the telephone instrument and the bell which had just rung out its summons.

"Are you not going to answer it?" I asked.

"I am afraid!" she answered. "I do not know what has come over me. I am afraid! Take up the receiver. Tell me who it is who speaks."

"You are sure that you wish it?" I asked.

"At once!" she insisted. "They will have gone away."

The bell rang again. I took the receiver into my hands.

"Who is there?" I asked.

"Is that the apartment of Mr. Delora?" was the reply.

"Yes!" I said.

"I wish to speak to Miss Felicia Delora," the voice said.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"It does not matter," was the answer. "Be so good as to tell her to come to the telephone—Miss Felicia Delora."

I held the receiver away from me and turned to her.

"Some one wishes to speak to you," I said.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"The person gave no name," I answered.

"Did you recognize the voice?" she asked.

I hesitated.

"I was not sure," I said. "It was like your uncle's."

She took the instrument into her hand. What passed between her and the person at the other end I had, of course, no means of telling. All I know was that she said, at short intervals,—"Yes! No! Yes! I promise!" Then she laid the instrument down and looked at me.

"The mystery is solved," she said. "My uncle has met some friends, and stayed with them for a little time to discuss a matter of business. I am sorry to have been so troublesome to you. My anxieties, of course, are at an end now."

I bowed, and moved toward the door.

"If there is anything else that I can do—" I said.

"I shall ask you," she answered, looking at me earnestly. "I shall, indeed."

"My number is 128," I said. "I am two floors above you. Please do not forget to make use of me if you need a friend."

"I shall not forget," she answered softly.

Then, as though moved by a sudden impulse, she held out her hand,—a small white hand with rather long fingers, manicured to a perfection unusual in this country. She wore only one ring, in which was set a magnificent uncut emerald. I held her fingers for a moment, and raised them to my lips.

"I shall be always at your service," I answered quietly, "however much—or however little you may care to tell me. Goodnight!"

I went to my rooms and washed. Afterwards I descended and ordered some supper in the cafe.

"Louis is not back yet?" I remarked to the waiter who attended to me.

"Not yet, monsieur," the man answered. "We expect him some time to-morrow. Monsieur is also from Paris?"

I nodded, and did not pursue the subject. On my way back to my rooms half an hour later I stopped to speak for a few minutes with the hall-porter.

"Mr. Delora has not arrived yet, sir," he remarked.

"No!" I answered. "I dare say there has been some slight mistake. I fancy that he has telephoned to his niece."

The hall-porter looked a little puzzled.

"It is rather a curious thing, sir," he said, "but there seem to be a good many people who are wanting to see Mr. Delora. We have had at least a dozen inquiries for him during the last few days, and all from people who refuse to leave their names."

I nodded.

"Business friends, perhaps," I remarked. "Mr. Delora comes over to keep friends with his connections here, I suppose."

The hall-porter coughed discreetly but mysteriously.

"No doubt, sir," he remarked.

I went on my way to my rooms, not caring to pursue the conversation. Yet I felt that there was something beneath it all. Ashley knew or guessed something which he would have told me with very little encouragement. Over a final cigarette I tried to think the matter out. Here were these people, remarkable for nothing except the obviously foreign appearance of the man, and the good taste and beauty of the girl. I had seen them at every fashionable haunt in Paris, and finally at a restaurant which Louis had frankly admitted to be the meeting-place of people whose careers were by no means above suspicion. I had crossed with them to England, and if their presence on the train were not the cause for Louis' insisting upon my hurried departure from Paris, it at any rate afforded him gratification to think that I might, perhaps, make their acquaintance. During the whole of the journey neither of them had made the slightest overture towards me. That we had come together at all was, without doubt, accidental. I did not for a moment doubt the girl's first attitude of irritation towards me. It was just as certain that her uncle had shown no desire whatever to make my acquaintance. I remembered his curious agitation as we had reached London, his muttered excuse of sea-sickness, and his somewhat extraordinary conduct in leaving his niece alone with me—a perfect stranger—while he hurried off to the hotel at which he had never arrived. Presumably, if that was indeed he who had spoken to the girl upon the telephone, she understood more about the matter than I did. He may have given her some explanation which accounted for his absence. If so, he had obviously desired it to remain a secret. What was the nature of this mystery? Of what was it that he was afraid? Who was this young man who, after his departure, had taken so much interest in his niece and myself at Charing Cross? Was it some one whom he had desired to evade?—a detective, perhaps, or an informer? The riddle was not easy to solve. Common-sense told me that my wisest course was to fulfil my original intention, and take the first train on the morrow to my brother's house in Norfolk. On the other hand, inclination strongly prompted me to stay where I was, to see this thing through, to see more of Felicia Delora! I was thirty years old, free and unencumbered, a moderately impressionable bachelor of moderate means. Until the time when the shadow of this tragedy had come into my life, which had found its culmination in the little restaurant of the Place d'Anjou, things had moved smoothly enough with me. I had had the average number of flirtations, many pleasant friendships. Yet I asked myself now whether there was any one in the past who had ever moved me in the same way as this girl, who was still almost a perfect stranger to me. I hated the man, her uncle. I hated the circumstances under which I had seen her. I hated the mystery by which they were surrounded. It was absolutely maddening for me to reflect that two floors below she was spending the night either with some mysterious and secret knowledge, or in real distress as to her uncle's fate. After all, I told myself a little bitterly, I was a fool! I was old enough to know better! The man himself was an adventurer,—there could be no doubt about it. How was it possible that she could be altogether ignorant of his character?

Then, just as I was half undressed, there came a soft knock at my door. I rose to my feet and stood for a moment undecided. For some time my own personal danger seemed to have slipped out of my memory. Now it came back with a sudden terrible rush. Perhaps the man Tapilow was dead! If so, this was the end!

I went out into the little hall and opened the door. The corridors outside were dimly lit, but there was no mistaking the two men who stood there waiting for me. One was obviously a police inspector, and the man by his side, although he wore plain clothes, could scarcely be anything but a detective.



CHAPTER XII

FELICIA DELORA

I looked at the two men, and they returned my gaze with interest.

"Are you Captain Rotherby, sir?" the inspector asked.

I nodded.

"That is my name," I said.

"We shall be glad to have a few words with you, sir," he declared.

"You had better come inside," I answered, and led the way into my sitting-room.

"We have been sent for," the inspector continued, "to inquire into the disappearance of Mr. Delora,—the gentleman who was expected to have arrived at this hotel this evening," he added, referring to his notes.

To me, who with a natural egotism had been thinking of my own affairs, and had been expecting nothing less than arrest, this declaration of the object of their visit had its consolations.

"We understand," the inspector continued, "that you travelled with Mr. Delora and his niece from Folkestone to Charing Cross."

"That is quite true," I answered. "The guard put them in my carriage."

"Did you converse with them during the journey, sir?"

"The man was asleep all the way," I answered. "He never even opened his eyes till we were practically in London."

"You talked, perhaps, with the young lady?" the man inquired.

"If I did," I answered serenely, "it seems to me that it was my business."

The police inspector was imperturbable.

"When was the last time you saw this Mr. Delora?" he asked.

"At Charing Cross Station," I answered. "He left the carriage directly the train stopped and went to get a hansom. He had been sea-sick coming over, and was anxious to get to the hotel very quickly."

"Leaving his niece alone?" the man asked.

"Leaving her in my care," I answered. "We were all coming to the same hotel, and the young lady and I had been in conversation for some time."

"He asked you, then, to take care of her?" the man inquired.

"The request as he made it," I answered, "was a perfectly natural one. By the bye," I continued, "who sent for you?"

"We were advised of Mr. Delora's disappearance by the proprietor of the hotel," the inspector answered.

"How do you know that it is a disappearance at all?" I asked. "Mr. Delora may have met some friends. He is not obliged to come here. In other words, if he chooses to disappear, he surely has a perfect right to! Are you acting upon Miss Delora's instructions?"

"No!" the inspector answered. "Miss Delora has not moved in the matter."

"Then I consider," I declared, "that your action is premature, and I have nothing to say."

The inspector was temporarily nonplussed. My view of the situation was perfectly reasonable, and my assumption that there was some other reason for their visit was not without truth. The man in the plain clothes, who had been listening intently but as yet had not spoken, intervened.

"Captain Rotherby," he said, "I am a detective from Scotland Yard,—in fact I am the head of one of the departments. We know you quite well to be a young gentleman of family, and above suspicion. We feel sure, therefore, that we can rely upon you to help us in any course we may take which is likely to lead to the detection of crime or criminals."

"Up to a certain point," I assented, "you are perfectly right."

"There are circumstances connected with these people the Deloras, uncle and niece," the detective continued, "which require investigation."

"I am sorry," I answered, "but I cannot at present answer any more questions, except with Miss Delora's permission."

"You can tell me this, Captain Rotherby," the detective asked, looking at me keenly, "do you know whether Miss Delora has been in communication with her uncle since she reached the hotel?"

"I have no idea," I answered.

"There is a telephone in her room," the detective continued, without removing his eyes from my face. "We understand from the hall-porter that a message was received by her soon after her arrival."

"Very likely," I answered. "I should suggest that you go and interview Miss Delora. She will probably tell you all about it."

They were both silent. I felt quite certain that they had already done so. At that moment my own telephone bell rang. The two men exchanged quick glances. I took up the receiver.

"Is that Capitaine Rotherby?"

I recognized the voice at once. It was Miss Delora speaking.

"Yes!" I answered.

"I thought I should like to let you know," she continued, "that I am no longer in the least anxious about my uncle. He is always doing eccentric things, and I am sure that he will turn up,—later to-night, perhaps, or at any rate to-morrow. I do not wish any inquiries made about him. It would only annoy him very much when he came to hear of it."

"I am very glad to hear you say so, Miss Delora," I answered. "To tell you the truth, there are some men here at present who are asking me questions. I have told them, however, that you are the only person to whom they should apply."

Her voice, when she answered me, showed some signs of agitation.

"I have not asked the help of the police," she declared, "and I do not need it! They would have come to my rooms, but I refused to receive them."

"I quite agree with you, Miss Delora," I answered. "Good night!"

"Good night, Capitaine Rotherby!" she said softly. I laid down the receiver.

"You have probably overheard my conversation," I said to the inspector. "After that, I can only wish you good night!"

He moved at once to the door in stolid, discontented fashion. The detective, however, lingered.

"Captain Rotherby," he said, "I cannot blame you for your decision. I think, however, it is only fair to warn you that you will probably find yourself better off in the long run if you do not mix yourself up in this affair."

"Indeed!" I answered.

"There are wheels within wheels," the man continued. "I have no charge to make against Mr. Delora. I have no charge to make against any one. But I think that so far as you are concerned, you would be well advised to remember that these are merely travelling companions, and that even the most accomplished man of the world is often deceived in such. Good night, sir!"

They left me then without another word. I heard their footsteps die away along the corridor, the ring of the lift bell, the clatter of its ascent and descent. Then I undressed and went to bed.

I awoke the next morning rather late, dressed and shaved in my rooms, and descended to the cafe for breakfast. The waiter who usually served me came hurrying up with a welcoming smile.

"Monsieur Louis," he announced, "returned early this morning."

"He is not here now?" I asked, looking around the room.

The waiter smiled deprecatingly.

"But for the early breakfast, no, sir!" he said. "Monsieur Louis will come at one o'clock, perhaps,—perhaps not until dinner-time. He will be here to-day, though."

I unfolded my paper and looked through the list of accidents. There was nothing which could possibly have applied to Mr. Delora. I waited until eleven o'clock, and then sent up my name to Miss Delora. A reply came back almost at once,—Miss Delora had gone out an hour ago, and had left no word as to the time of her return. Once more I was puzzled. Why should she go out unless she had received some news? She had told me that she had no friends in London. It was scarcely likely that she would go out on any casual expedition in her present state of uncertainty. I made my way to the manager's office, whom I knew very well, and with whom I had often had a few minutes' talk. He received me with his usual courtesy, and gave me a handful of cigarettes to try. I lit one, and seated myself in his easy-chair.

"Mr. Helmsley," I said, "you know that I am not, as a rule, a curious person, and I should not like to ask you any questions which you thought improper ones, but you have some guests staying here in whom I am somewhat interested."

Mr. Helmsley nodded, and by his genial silence invited me to proceed.

"I mean Mr. Delora and his niece," I continued.

The smile faded from the manager's face.

"The gentleman who did not arrive last night?" he remarked.

I nodded.

"I travelled up with them," I said, "from Folkestone, and certainly Mr. Delora's behavior was a little peculiar as we neared London. He seemed nervous, and anxious to quit the train at the earliest possible moment. I brought his niece on here, as you know, found that he had not arrived, and I understand that, up to the present, nothing has been heard of him."

"It is quite true," Mr. Helmsley admitted thoughtfully. "The matter was reported to me last night, and very soon afterwards an inspector from Scotland Yard called. I gave him all the information I could, naturally, but on reference to the young lady she declined to consider the matter seriously at all. Her uncle, she said, had probably met some friends, or had made a call upon the way. Under the circumstances, there was nothing else to do but to drop the matter, so far as any direct inquiries were concerned."

I nodded.

"But the man himself?" I asked. "What do you know of him?"

"I have always understood," Mr. Helmsley said slowly, "that he was a gentleman from South America who had large coffee plantations, and who came over every year to sell his produce. He has stayed at the hotel about this time for the last four years. He has always engaged a good suite of rooms, has paid his accounts promptly,—I really do not know anything more about him."

"Has his niece accompanied him always?" I asked.

"Never before," Mr. Helmsley answered,—"at least, not to my recollection."

"You do not know what part of South America he comes from?" I asked.

"I have no idea," Mr. Helmsley declared. "His letters are always forwarded to an agent."

"So practically you can tell me nothing," I said, rising.

"Nothing at all, I fear," Mr. Helmsley answered. "I shall make it a point of calling upon the young lady within an hour or so, to inquire again about her uncle."

"The young lady has gone out," I remarked. "I have just sent my own name up."

Mr. Helmsley raised his eyebrows. He, too, was surprised.

"Then she has probably heard something," he remarked.

"Perhaps," I answered. "By the bye, I understand that Louis is back."

"He came by the night train," Mr. Helmsley answered. "I scarcely expected him so soon. You will probably see him in the cafe at luncheon-time."

I took my leave of the manager and returned to my own side of the hotel.

"If Miss Delora should come in," I said to the hall-porter on my way to the lift, "please let me know. I shall be in my room, writing letters."

"Miss Delora came in just after you crossed the courtyard, sir," the man answered. "She is in her room now."

"Alone?" I asked.

"I believe that she came in with a gentleman, sir. Shall I ring up and ask for her?"

I hesitated for a moment. I was recalling to myself her statement that she had no friends in London whatsoever.

"Yes!" I answered. "Send up my name, and say that I should like to see her."

The man went to the telephone, and emerged from the box a moment later.

"Miss Delora would be much obliged," he said, "if you would kindly go to her room in a quarter of an hour."

I nodded, and turned away for the lift. The cigarette between my lips was suddenly tasteless. I was experiencing a new sensation, and distinctly an unpleasant one. With it was coupled an intense curiosity to know the identity of the man who was even now with Felicia!



CHAPTER XIII

LOUIS, MAITRE D'HOTEL

I measured out that quarter of an hour into minutes, and almost into seconds. Then I knocked at the door of the sitting-room, and was bidden enter by Felicia Delora herself. She was alone, but she was dressed for the street, and was apparently just leaving the hotel again. Her clothes were of fashionable make, and cut with the most delightful simplicity. Her toilette was that of the ideal Frenchwoman who goes out for a morning's shopping, and may possibly lunch in the Bois. She was still very pale, however, and the dark lines under her eyes seemed to speak of a sleepless night. I fancied that she welcomed me a little shyly. She dropped her veil almost at once, and she did not ask me to sit down.

"I hope that you have some news this morning of your uncle, Miss Delora?" I asked.

She shook her head.

"I have not heard—anything of importance," she answered.

"I am sorry," I said. "I am afraid that you must be getting very anxious."

She bent over the button of her glove.

"Yes," she admitted. "I am very anxious! I am very anxious indeed. I scarcely know what to do."

"Tell me, then," I said, "why do you not let me go with you to the police and have some inquiries made? If you prefer it, we could go to a private detective. I really think that something ought to be done."

She shook her head.

"I dare not," she said simply.

"Dare not?" I repeated.

"Because when he returns," she explained, "he would be so very, very angry with me. He is a very eccentric man—my uncle. He does strange things, and he allows no one to question his actions."

"But he has no right," I declared hotly, "to leave you like this in a strange hotel, without even a maid, without a word of farewell or explanation. The thing is preposterous!"

She had finished buttoning her gloves, and looked up at me with a queer little smile at the corner of her lips and her hands behind her.

"Capitaine Rotherby," she said, "there are so many things which it seems hard to understand. I myself am very unhappy and perplexed, but I do know what my uncle would wish me to do. He would wish me to remain quite quiet, and to wait."

I was silent for a few moments. It was difficult to reason with her.

"You have been out this morning," I said, a little abruptly.

"I have been out," she admitted. "I do not think, Capitaine Rotherby, that I must tell you where I have been, but I went to the one place where I thought that I might have news of him."

"You brought back with you a companion."

"No, not a companion," she interposed gently. "You must not think that, Capitaine Rotherby. He was just a person who—who had to come. You are not cross with me," she asked, lifting her eyes a little timidly to mine, "that there are some things which I do not tell you?"

"No, I am not cross!" I answered slowly. "Only, if you felt it possible," I added, "to give me your entire confidence, it seems to me that it would be better. I will ask you to believe," I continued, "that I am not merely a curious person. I am—well, more than a little interested."

She held out both her hands and raised her eyes to mine. Through the filmy lace of her veil I could see that they were very soft, almost as though tears were gathering there.

"Oh! I do believe you, Capitaine Rotherby," she said, "and I would be very, very happy if I could tell you now all the things which trouble me, all the things which I do not understand! But I may not. I may not—just now."

"Whenever you choose," I answered, "I shall be ready to hear. Whenever you need my services, they are yours."

"You do trust me a little, then?" she asked quickly.

"Implicitly!" I answered.

"You do not mind," she continued, "that I tell you once more that I am going out, and that I must go out alone?"

"Why, no!" I answered. "If you do not need me, there is an end of it."

"You are very good to me," she said. "Perhaps this afternoon, if you have a few minutes to spare, we might talk, eh?"

"At any time you say," I answered.

"At four o'clock, then," she said, "you will come here and sit with me for a little time. Perhaps this evening, if you have nothing to do—" she asked.

"I have nothing to do," I interrupted promptly.

"I do not know how I shall feel," she said, "about going out, but I would like to see you, anyhow."

"I shall come," I promised her. "Some time within the next few days I must go down to Norfolk—"

"To Norfolk?" she interrupted quickly. "Is that far away?"

"Only a few hours," I answered.

"You will stay there?" she exclaimed.

I shook my head.

"I think not," I answered. "I think I shall come back directly I have seen my brother."

She lifted her eyes to mine.

"Why?" she whispered.

"In case I can be of service to you!" I answered.

"You are so very good, so very kind," she said earnestly; "and to think that when I first saw you, I believed—but that does not matter!" she wound up quickly. "Please come to the lift with me and ring the bell. I lose my way in these passages."

I watched her step into the lift, her skirts a little raised, she herself, to my mind, the perfection of feminine grace from the tips of her patent shoes to the black feathers in her hat. She waved her hand to me as the lift shot down, and I turned away....

At exactly half-past one I went down to the cafe for lunch. The room was fairly full, but almost the first person I saw was Louis, suave and courteous, conducting a party of guests to their places. I took my seat at my accustomed table, and watched him for a few moments as he moved about. What a waiter he must have been, I thought! His movements were swift and noiseless. His eyes seemed like points of electricity, alive to the smallest fault on the part of his subordinates, the slightest frown on the faces of his patrons. There was scarcely a person lunching there who did not feel that he himself was receiving some part of Louis' personal attention. One saw him in the distance, suggesting with his easy smile a suitable luncheon to some bashful youth; or found him, a moment or two later, comparing reminiscences of some wonderful sauce with a bon viveur, an habitue of the place. Such a man, I thought, was wasted as a maitre d'hotel. He had the gifts of a diplomatist, the presence and inspiration of a genius.

I had imagined that my entrance into the room was unnoticed, but I found him suddenly bowing before my table.

"The Plat du Jour," he remarked, "is excellent. Monsieur should try it. After a few days of French cookery," he continued, "a simple English dish is sometimes an agreeable relief."

"Thank you, Louis," I answered. "Tell me what has become of Mr. Delora?"

My sudden attack was foiled with the consummate ease of a master—if, indeed, the man was not genuine.

"Mr. Delora!" he repeated. "Is he not staying here,—he and his niece? I have been looking for them to come into luncheon."

"His niece is here," I answered. "Mr. Delora never arrived."

Louis then did a thing which I have never seen him do before or afterwards,—he dropped something which he was carrying! It was only a wine carte, and he stooped and picked it up at once with a word of graceful apology. But I noticed that when he once more stood erect, the exercise of stooping, so far from having brought any flush into his face, seemed to have driven from it every atom of color.

"You mean that Mr. Delora went elsewhere, Monsieur?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"They travelled up from Folkestone," I said, "in my carriage. At Charing Cross Mr. Delora, who had been suffering, he said, from sea-sickness, and who was certainly very nervous and ill at ease, jumped out before the train had altogether stopped and hurried off to get a hansom to come on here. It had been arranged that I should bring his niece and follow him. When we arrived he had not come. He has not been here since. I have just left his niece, and she assured me that she had no idea where he was."

Louis stood quite still.

"It is a most singular occurrence," he said.

"It is the strangest thing I have ever heard of in my life," I answered.

"Monsieur is very much interested, doubtless," Louis said thoughtfully. "He travelled with them,—he expressed, I believe, an admiration for the young lady. Doubtless he is very much interested."

"So much so, Louis," I answered, "that I intend to do everything I can to solve the mystery of Delora's disappearance. I am an idle man, and it will amuse me."

Louis shook his head.

"Ah!" he said, "it is not always safe to meddle in the affairs of other people! There are wheels within wheels. The disappearance of Mr. Delora may not be altogether so accidental as it seems."

"You mean—" I exclaimed hastily.

"But nothing, monsieur," Louis answered, with a little shrug of the shoulders. "I spoke quite generally. A man disappears, and every one in the world immediately talks of foul play, of murder,—of many such things. But, after all, is that quite reasonable? Most often the man who disappears, disappears of his own accord,—disappears either from fear of things that may happen to him, or because he himself has some purpose to serve."

"You mean to suggest, then, Louis," I said, "that the disappearance of Mr. Delora is a voluntary one?"

Once more Louis shrugged his shoulders.

"Who can tell, monsieur?" he answered. "I suggest nothing. I spoke only as one might speak, hearing of this case. One moment, monsieur."

He darted away to welcome some newcomers, ushered them to their table, suggested their lunch, passed up and down the room, stopping here and there to bow to a patron, to examine the dishes standing ready to be served, to correct some fault of service. It seemed to me, as I watched him, that he did a hundred things before he returned. Yet in a very few moments he was standing once more before my table, examining with a complacent air the service of my luncheon.

"Monsieur will find the petits carots excellent," he declared. "My friend Henry, he tries to serve this dish, but it is not the same thing; no! Always the vegetables must be served in the country where they are grown. Monsieur will drink something?"

"A pint of Moselle," I ordered. "I dare not order whiskey and soda before you, Louis."

He made a little grimace.

"It is as monsieur wishes," he declared, "but it is a drink without finesse,—a crude drink for a man of monsieur's tastes. It shall be the Moselle No. 197," he added, turning to the waiter. "Do not forget the number. 197," he added, turning to me, "is an absolutely light wine,—for luncheon, delicious!"

We were alone once more. Louis bent, smiling, over my table.

"Monsieur is much interested," he said, "in the disappearance of an acquaintance, a passing travelling companion, but he does not ask of affairs which concern him more gravely."

"Of Tapilow!" I exclaimed quickly.

Louis nodded.

"Tapilow is in an hospital and he will live," Louis declared slowly, "but all his life he will limp, and all his life he will carry a scar from his forehead to his mouth."

I nodded meditatively.

"It is, perhaps," I answered, "a more complete punishment."

I fancied that in Louis' green eyes there shot for a moment a gleam of something like admiration.

"Monsieur has courage," he murmured.

"Why not?" I answered. "We all of us have a certain amount of philosophy, you know, Louis. It was inevitable that when that man and I met, I should try to kill him. I had no weapon that night. I simply took him into my hands. But there, you know the rest. If he had died, I might have had to pay the penalty. It was a risk, but you see I had to take it. The thing was inevitable. The wrong that he had done some one who is very dear to me was too terrible, too hideous, for him to be allowed to go unpunished."

"When he recovers," Louis remarked thoughtfully, "monsieur will have an enemy."

"A great man, Louis, once declared," I reminded him, "that one's enemies were the salt of one's life. One's friends sometimes weary. One's enemies give always a zest to existence."

Again Louis was summoned away. I ate my lunch and sipped my wine. Louis was right. It was excellent, yet likely enough to be overlooked by the casual visitor, for it was of exceedingly moderate price.

So Tapilow was not likely to die! So much the better, perhaps! The time might have come in my life when the whole of that tragedy lay further back in the shadows, and when the thought that I had killed a man, however much he had deserved it, might chill me. I understood from Louis' very reticence that I had nothing now to fear from the law. So far as regards Tapilow himself, I had no fear. It was not likely that he would ever raise his hand against me.

I dismissed the subject from my thoughts. It was just then I remembered that, after all, I had not gathered from Louis a single shred of information on the subject in which I was most interested. I almost smiled when I remembered how admirably he had contrived to elude my curiosity. The only thing which I gathered from his manner was that Mr. Delora's disappearance was unexpected by him. Never mind, the end was not yet! I ordered coffee and a liqueur, and laid my cigarette case upon the table. I would wait until Louis chose to come to me once more. There were certain things which I intended to ask him point blank.



CHAPTER XIV

LOUIS EXPLAINS

Louis returned of his own accord before long.

"Monsieur has been well served?" he asked genially.

"Excellently, Louis," I answered, "so far as the mere question of food goes. You have not, however, managed to satisfy my curiosity."

"Monsieur?" he asked interrogatively.

"Concerning the Deloras," I answered.

Louis shrugged his shoulders.

"But what should I know?" he asked. "Mr. Delora, he has come here last year and the year before. He has stayed for a month or so. He understands what he eats. That is all. Mademoiselle comes for the first time. I know her not at all."

"What do you think of his disappearance, Louis?" I asked.

"What should I think of it, monsieur? I know nothing."

"Mr. Delora, I am told," I continued, "is a coffee planter in South America."

"I, too," Louis admitted, "have heard so much."

"How came he to have the entree to the Cafe des Deux Epingles?" I asked.

Louis smiled.

"I myself," he remarked, "am but a rare visitor there. How should I tell?"

"Louis," said I, "why not be honest with me? I am certainly not a person to be afraid of. I am very largely in your hands over the Tapilow affair, and, as you know, I have seen too much of the world to consider trifles. I do not believe that Mr. Delora came to London to sell his crop of coffee. I do not believe that you are ignorant of his affairs. I do not believe that his disappearance is so much a mystery to you as it is to the rest of us—say to me and to mademoiselle his niece."

Louis' face was like the face of a sphinx. He made no protestations. He denied nothing. He waited simply to see where I was leading him.

"I am not sure, Louis," I said, "that I do not believe that you had some object in taking me to the Cafe des Deux Epingles that night. Be honest with me. I can be a friend. I have influence here and there, and, as I think you know, I love adventures. Tell me what you know of this affair. Tell me if you had any motive in taking me to the Cafe des Deux Epingles that night?"

Louis looked around the room with keen, watchful eyes. Without abandoning his attitude of graceful attention to what I was saying, he seemed in those few moments to be absorbing every detail of the progress of the affairs in the restaurant itself. The arrangement of the service at some tables a little way off seemed to annoy him. He frowned and called one of his subordinates, speaking in a rapid undertone to him, and with many gestures. The man hurried away to obey his instructions, and Louis turned to me.

"Monsieur," said he, "there are many times when it is not wise or politic to tell the truth. There are many times, therefore, when I have to speak falsehoods, but I will confess that I do not like it. Always I would prefer the truth, if it were possible. When I saw you at the Opera in Paris I thought of you only as one of my best and most valued patrons. It was only as we stood there talking that another idea came into my head. I acted upon it. There was a reason why I took you to the Cafe des Deux Epingles!"

"Go on, Louis," I said. "Go on."

"I took you there," Louis continued, "because I knew that some time during the night Tapilow would come. Already I knew what would happen if you two met."

"You wished it to happen, then?" I exclaimed.

Louis bowed.

"Monsieur," he said, "I did wish it to happen! The person of whom we have spoken is no friend of mine, or of my friends. He had entered into a scheme with certain of them, and it was known that he meant to play them false. He deserved punishment, and I was content that he should meet it at your hands."

"Is that all, Louis?" I asked.

"Not all, monsieur," he continued. "I said to myself that if monsieur quarrels with his enemy, and trouble comes of it, it will be I—I and my friends—who can assist monsieur. Monsieur will owe us something for this, and the time may come—the time, indeed, may be very close at hand—when the services of monsieur might be useful."

"Come, Louis," I said, "this is better. Now I am beginning to understand. Go on a little further, if you please. I acknowledge your claim upon me. What can I do?"

"Monsieur likes excitement," Louis murmured.

"Indeed I do!" I answered fervently.

Louis hesitated.

"If there were some plot against this man Delora," he said, "to prevent his carrying out some undertaking, monsieur would help to frustrate it?"

"With all my heart," I answered. "There is only one thing I would ask. What is Mr. Delora's undertaking?—To sell his coffee?"

Louis' inimitable smile spread over his face.

"Ah!" he said, "monsieur is pleased to be facetious!"

Then I knew that I was on the point of learning a little, at any rate, of the truth.

"Mr. Delora has other schemes," Louis said slowly.

"So I imagined," I answered.

I saw Louis half turn his head. There was no change in his tone nor in his expression. Naturally, therefore, his words sounded a little strangely.

"My conversation with monsieur, for the moment, is finished," he said. "There is some one quite close who would give a great deal to overhear. It follows, therefore, that one says nothing. If monsieur will grant me a quarter of an hour at any time, in his room, after four o'clock—"

"At half-past four, Louis," I answered.

Louis gave a final little twist to my tablecloth and departed with a bow. I saw then that at the table next to mine, hidden from me, for the moment, by Louis himself, was seated the man who had stood by our side at Charing Cross!

After luncheon I took a taxicab, called on my tailor, looked in at the club, and bought some cigarettes. The whole of London seemed covered with dust sheets, to smell of paint. My club was in the hands of furbishers. My tobacconist was in his house-boat on the Thames. I met only one or two acquaintances, who seemed so sorry for themselves that their depression was only heightened by recognizing me. The streets were given over to a strangely clad crowd of pilgrims from other lands,—American women with short coats, pince nez, and Baedekers, dragging along their mankind in neat suits and outrageous hats. One seemed to recognize nothing familiar even in the shop-windows. I was glad enough to get back to the Milan, especially so as in the lift I came upon Felicia. She started a little at seeing me, and seemed a little nervous. When the lift stopped at her floor I got out too.

"Let me walk with you to your room," I said. "It is nearly four o'clock."

"If you please," she answered. "I wanted to speak to you, Capitaine Rotherby. There was something I forgot to say before I went out this morning."

I sighed.

"There is always a good deal that I forget to say when I am with you!" I answered.

She smiled.

"You, too!" she exclaimed. "You are beginning to say the foolish things! But never mind, we do not joke now. I speak seriously. Louis—Louis is back, eh?"

"Certainly," I answered. "He was in the cafe at luncheon time."

"Capitaine Rotherby," she said, as we passed into her room together, "Louis is a very strange person. I think that he has some idea in his head about you just now. Will you promise me this,—that you will be careful?"

"Careful?" I repeated. "I don't quite understand; but I'll promise all the same."

She took hold of the lapels of my coat as though to pull me down a little towards her. I felt my heart beat quickly, for the deep blue light was in her eyes.

"Ah, Capitaine Rotherby," she said, "you do not understand! This man Louis—he is not only what he seems! I think that he took you to the Cafe des Deux Epingles that night with a purpose. He thinks, perhaps, that you are in his power, eh, because you did fight with the other man and hurt him badly? And Louis knows!"

"Please go on," I said.

"I want you to be careful," she said. "If he asks you to do anything for him, be sure that it is something which you ought to do,—which you may do honorably! You see, Capitaine Rotherby," she went on, "Louis and his friends are not men like you. They are more subtle,—they have, perhaps, more brain,—but I do not think that they are honest! Louis may try to frighten you into becoming like them. He may try very many inducements," she went on, looking up at me. "You must not listen. You must promise me that you will not listen."

"I promise with all my heart," I answered, "that neither Louis nor any one else in the world shall make me do anything which I feel to be dishonorable."

"Louis is very crafty," she whispered. "He may make a thing seem as though it were all right when it is not, you understand?"

"Yes, I understand!" I answered. "But tell me, how did you get to know so much about Louis?"

"It does not matter—that," she answered, a little impatiently. "I have heard of Louis from others. I know the sort of man he is. I think that he will make some proposal to you. Will you be careful?"

"I promise," I answered "May I see you again to-day? Remember," I pleaded, "that I am staying here only for your sake. I ought to have gone to Norfolk this afternoon."

She drew a little sigh.

"I wonder!" she said, half to herself. "I think, perhaps,—yes, we will dine together, monsieur, you and I!" she said. "You must take me somewhere where it is quite quiet—where no one will see us!"

"Not down in the cafe, then?" I asked smiling.

She held up her hands in horror.

"But no!" she declared. "If it is possible, let us get away somewhere without Louis knowing."

"It can be arranged," I assured her. "May I come in and see you later on, and you shall tell me where to meet you?"

She thought for a minute.

"At seven o'clock," she answered. "Please go away now. I have a dressmaker coming to see me."

I turned away, but I had scarcely gone half a dozen paces before she called me back.

"Capitaine Rotherby," she said, "there is something to tell you."

I waited expectantly.

"Yes?" I murmured.

She avoided meeting my eyes.

"You need not trouble any further about my uncle," she said. "He has returned."

"Returned!" I exclaimed. "When?"

"A very short time ago," she answered. "He is very unwell. It will not be possible for any one to see him for a short time. But he has returned!"

"I am very glad indeed," I assured her.

Her face showed no signs of exultation or relief. I could not help being puzzled at her demeanor. She gave me no further explanation.

There was a ring at the door, and she motioned me away.

"The dressmaker!" she exclaimed.

I went upstairs to my rooms to wait for Louis.



CHAPTER XV

A DANGEROUS IMPERSONATION

Louis appeared, as ever, punctual to the moment. He carried a menu card in his hand. He had the air of having come to take my orders for some projected feast. I closed the door of the outer hall and the door of my sitting-room.

"Now, Louis," I said, "we are not only alone, but we are secure from interruption. Tell me exactly what it is that you have in your mind."

Louis declined the chair to which I waved him. He leaned slightly back against the table, facing me.

"Captain Rotherby," he said, "I have sometimes thought that men like yourself, of spirit, who have seen something of the world, must find it very wearisome to settle down to lead the life of an English farmer gentleman."

"I am not proposing to do anything of the sort," I answered.

Louis nodded.

"For you," he said, "perhaps it would be impossible. But tell me, then, what is there that you care to do? I will tell you. You will give half your time to sport. The rest of the time you will eat and drink and grow fat. You will go to Marienbad and Carlsbad, and you will begin to wonder about your digestion, find yourself growing bald,—you will realize that nothing in the world ages a man so much as lack of excitement."

"I grant you everything, Louis," I said. "What excitement have you to offer me?"

"Three nights ago," Louis said, "I saw you myself take a man into your hands with the intention of killing him. You broke the law!"

"I did," I admitted, "and I would do it again."

"Would you break the law in other ways?" Louis asked.

"Under similar circumstances, yes!" I answered.

"Listen, monsieur," Louis continued. "It is our pleasure to save you from the unpleasant consequences which would certainly have befallen you in any other place than the Cafe des Deux Epingles after your—shall we say misunderstanding?—with James Tapilow."

"I admit my indebtedness, Louis," I answered.

"Will you do something to repay it?" Louis asked, raising his eyes to mine.

"You will have to tell me what it is first," I said.

"It is concerned with the disappearance of Mr. Delora," Louis said.

"But Mr. Delora has returned!" I exclaimed. "His niece told me so herself. He has returned, but he is very unwell—confined to his room, I believe."

"It is the story which has been agreed upon," Louis answered. "We were obliged to protect ourselves against the police and the newspaper people, but, nevertheless, it is not the truth. Mr. Delora has not returned!"

"Does mademoiselle know that?" I asked quickly.

"She does not," Louis admitted. "She has been told exactly what she told you,—that her uncle had returned, but that he was ill and must be kept quiet for a little time. It was necessary that she should believe his room occupied, for reasons which you will understand later. She shall be told the truth very soon."

I was conscious of a distinct sense of relief. The thought that she might have told me a falsehood had given me a sudden stab.

"Where is Mr. Delora, then?" I asked.

"That we can guess," Louis said. "We want you to go to him."

"Very well, Louis," I said. "I am perfectly agreeable, only you must tell me who this Mr. Delora is, why he is in hiding, and who you mean when you say 'we'."

"Monsieur," Louis said, "if it rested with me alone I would tell you all these things. I would give you our confidence freely, because we are a little company who trust freely when we are sure. The others, however, do not know you as I know you, and I have the right to divulge only certain things to you. Mr. Delora has come to this country on a mission of peculiar danger. He has a secret in his possession which is of immense value, and there are others who are not our friends who know of it. Mr. Delora had a signal at Charing Cross that there was danger in taking up his residence here. That is why he slipped away quietly and is lying now in hiding. If monsieur indeed desires an adventure, I could propose one to him."

"Go ahead, Louis," I said.

"Let it be understood that Mr. Delora has returned.—As I have already told you, he has not returned. The door of his room is locked, and no one is permitted to enter. It is believed that to-night an attempt will be made to force a way into that room and to rob its occupant."

"The room is empty, you say? There is no one there?" I interrupted.

"Precisely, monsieur," Louis said, "but if some one were there who was strong and brave it might be possible to teach a lesson to those who have played us false, and who have planned evil things! If that some one were you, Captain Rotherby, we should consider—Monsieur Decresson and the others would consider—that your debt to them was paid!"

I whistled softly to myself. I began to see Louis' idea. I was to enter, somehow or other, the room in which Mr. Delora was supposed to be, to remain there concealed, and to await this attack which, for some reason or other, they were expecting. And then, as the possibilities connected with such an event spread themselves out before me, my sense of humor suddenly asserted itself, and, to Louis' amazement, I laughed in his face. I came back from this world of fanciful figures, of mysterious robberies, of attempted assassinations, to the world of every-day things. It was Louis—the maitre d'hotel, the man who had ordered my Plat du Jour and selected my Moselle—who spoke of these things so calmly in my own sitting-room, with a menu card in his hand, and a morocco-bound wine list sticking out of his breast pocket. I was not in any imaginary city but in London,—city of tragedies, indeed, but tragedies of a homelier sort. It was not possible that such things could be happening here, in an atmosphere which, through familiarity, had become almost commonplace. Was I to believe that Louis, my favorite maitre d'hotel, my fellow schemer in many luncheon and dinner parties, my authority upon vintages, my gastronomic good angel, was one of a band of conspirators, who played with life and death as though they had been the balls of a juggler? Was I to believe that there existed even in this very hotel, which for years had been my home, the seeds of these real tragical happenings which sometimes, though only half disclosed, blaze out upon the world as a revelation of the great underground world of crime? I found it almost impossible to take Louis seriously. I could not focus my thoughts.

"Louis," I said, "is this a great joke, or are you talking to me in sober, serious earnest?"

"I am talking in earnest, monsieur," Louis said slowly. "I have not exaggerated or spoken a word to you which is not the truth."

"Let me understand this thing a little more clearly," I said. "What has Ferdinand Delora done that he need fear a murderous assault? What has he done to make enemies? Is he a criminal, or are those who seek him criminals?"

"He carries with him," Louis said slowly, "a secret which will produce a great fortune. There are others who think that they have a right to share in it. It is those others who are his enemies. It is those others who hope to attain by force what they could gain by no other means."

A sudden inspiration prompted my next question.

"Was Tapilow one of those?" I demanded.

Louis nodded gravely.

"Monsieur Tapilow was one of those who claimed a share, but he was not willing to run the smallest risk," he assented.

"And for that reason," I remarked, "he is well out of the way! I understand. There is one more question, Louis, and it is one which you must answer me truthfully. You can imagine what it is when I tell you that it concerns mademoiselle!"

"Mademoiselle is innocent of the knowledge of any of these things," Louis declared earnestly. "She is a very charming and a very beautiful young lady, but if ever a young lady needed friends, she does!"

"Why is she here at all?" I demanded. "Why was she not left behind in Paris? If there is no part for her to play in this little comedy, it seems to me that she would have been much better out of the way."

"Captain Rotherby," Louis said, "there was a reason, and some day you will understand it—why it was necessary that she should come to London with her uncle. I can tell you no more. You must not ask me any more."

I looked into Louis' impenetrable face. I could learn nothing there. His words had left me partly unconvinced. Somehow I felt that the only time he had spoken the entire truth was when he had spoken of Felicia. Yet it was certainly true that I owed these people something, and I had no wish to shrink from paying my debt.

"Tell me," I said, "if I take Delora's place to-night, and if your scheme is successful, does that free him? Will he be able to come back? Will it be for the benefit of mademoiselle?"

"But most certainly!" Louis answered earnestly. "It is not an organization against which we fight. It is one or two desperate men who believe themselves robbed. Once they are out of the way, Delora can walk the streets a free man. There would be nothing," he added, "to prevent your seeking his friendship or the friendship of his niece."

"Very well," I agreed. "I will spend the night in Mr. Delora's rooms. I shall leave it to you to make all the arrangements."

Louis looked at me with a curious expression in his face.

"You understand, monsieur," he said slowly, "that there may be danger?"

"Naturally I understand," I said. "If it comes to a fight, I shall be prepared, and I have had a little experience."

"However well armed you may be," Louis said, "there will be a risk. Our enemies are swift and silent. One of them, at any rate, is an accomplished criminal. They are too clever for us unaided. I could take Mademoiselle Delora to Scotland Yard to-day, and I could tell them what we fear. They might patrol the hotel with the police, and even then you would wake in the night and find some one by your bedside."

"By the bye, Louis," I said, "why all this mystery? According to you, Delora is an honest man. Why don't you go to the police?"

Louis shook his head.

"We are not free to do that," he said. "Delora is honest, but it is a great secret which he controls, and the only chance of using it successfully is to keep it a secret from the whole world!"

"How am I to be introduced into the room, Louis?" I asked.

"That," he answered, "will be easy. There are two lifts, as you know,—one from the smoking-room and one from the entrance hall. The number of Mr. Delora's apartment is 157. Here, by the bye, monsieur, is a key."

I took it and put it in my waistcoat pocket.

"You will ascend by the lift from the smoking-room to the top floor," Louis continued. "You can then descend by the other lift to the fifth floor, and walk boldly into the sitting-room. The door on the right will be Mr. Delora's bedroom, and of that there will be, after midnight, a key upon the mantelpiece in the sitting-room."

"But Miss Delora?" I asked. "What of her? The sitting-room connects, also, with her apartments."

"Mademoiselle will be told something of this during the evening," Louis answered. "It will be better. She will have retired and be locked in her room long before it will be necessary for you to ascend."

"Very well," I said. "But now for the practical side of it. If anything really happens, what is to be my excuse for occupying those apartments to-night?"

"I will provide you with a sufficient one later on," Louis promised. "You will dine downstairs?"

"Possibly," I answered.

"In which case we can have a little conversation," Louis remarked.

"Louis," I said, "what sort of an affair is this, really, in which I am mixing myself up? Am I one of a gang of magnificent criminals, a political conspirator, or a fool?"

Louis smiled.

"Monsieur," he said, "I found you very weary of life. I will put you in the way of finding excitement. Monsieur should ask no more than that. There are many men of his temperament who would give years of their life for the chance."

He left me with his usual polite bow. I strolled after him down the corridor a moment or so later, but I just missed the lift in which he descended. Looking down, I saw that it had stopped at the fifth floor. It seemed as though Louis had gone to visit number 157!



CHAPTER XVI

TWO OF A TRADE

I smoked two pipes, one after the other, in a vain attempt to draw out some definite sequence of facts from the tangled web of happenings into which I seemed to have strayed. I came to the conclusion that Fate, which had bestowed on me a physique of more than ordinary size, a sound constitution, and muscles which had filled my study with various kinds of trophies, had not been equally generous in her dispensation of brains. Try as I would, I could make nothing of the situation in which I found myself. The most reasonable thing seemed to be to conclude that Louis was one of a gang of thieves, that I was about to become their accomplice, and that Felicia was simply the Delilah with whom these people had summoned me to their aid. Such a conclusion, however, was not flattering, nor did it please me in any way. Directly I allowed myself to think of Felicia, I believed in her. There were none of the arts of the adventuress about her methods, her glances, or her words. She did not, for instance, in the least resemble the young lady with the turquoises, who had also been good enough to take an interest in me! I gave the whole thing up at last. Perhaps by the morrow I should know more,—if, indeed, I thought, a little grimly, I knew anything! I could not help feeling that this little enterprise to which I had committed myself might turn out to be a serious affair. Even Louis had not tried to minimize the risks. I felt, however, that if it led me to any better understanding of the situation, I could welcome whatever danger it involved.

A little before six o'clock I turned to look at the weather, which had been threatening all day, meaning to take a stroll. The rain, however, was coming down in sheets, so I descended instead to the little smoking-room, thinking that I might find there some one whom I knew. I had already ensconced myself in an easy-chair and ordered a whiskey and soda, when I became conscious that the very person with whom my thoughts were occupied was in the room and within a few feet of me.

Felicia was sitting on a couch, and by her side a man whom I recognized at once. It was the companion of my lady of the turquoises! Apparently they had not noticed my entrance. They continued for several moments to be unaware of it. Felicia was paler than ever. She seemed to be struggling, as she sat there, to conceal her fear and aversion for the man who leaned toward her, talking in rapid French, with many gesticulations. He was badly dressed in a travelling suit of French cut, with a waistcoat buttoned almost to the chin. A floppy black tie hung down over the lapels of his coat. His black moustache, which seemed to have suffered from the crossing, was drooping, and gave to his mouth a particularly sinister expression. He had a neck of unusual size, and the fat ran in ridges to the back of his scalp, worked up by his collar as he moved his head rapidly with every sentence. He seemed altogether unable to sit still or control himself. His boots—brown tops with narrow patent vamps—beat a tattoo upon the floor. No wonder that Felicia shrunk into the corner of her lounge! I felt that it was impossible for me to sit and watch them any longer. I rose to my feet.

Felicia saw me first,—then her companion. Felicia's first expression, to my intense joy, was one of relief. Her companion, on the other hand, darted towards me a perfectly murderous glance. I advanced toward them, and Felicia half rose.

"Capitaine Rotherby," she said, "oh, I am very glad to see you! This man here who sits by my side—he does not speak one word of English. Listen, I beg. Go and find some one in the cafe—you know whom I mean, I will not mention his name. Go and find him, and bring him here. Tell him that Bartot is here and is terrifying me, that he threatens all the time. Please bring him."

"I will go at once," I answered.

I bowed and turned away. Of Bartot I took no notice, though he rose at once and seemed about to address me. I hurried into the cafe, but it was a slack hour and there were no signs of Louis.

"Can you tell me where to find Louis?" I asked one of the waiters.

The man glanced at the clock and shrugged his shoulders.

"Perhaps in his office," he said, "but Monsieur Louis often goes out for an hour about this time."

"Where is his office?" I asked.

The man led me into the service room and turned to the left. He knocked at a closed door, and I heard a sleepy voice say—

"Come in!"

I entered, and found Louis in a tiny little sitting-room, curled up on a sofa. In his hand was a pocket-book and a pencil. He appeared to have been making memoranda. He sprang to his feet as I entered.

"Monsieur!" he exclaimed, putting away the pocket-book and rising to his feet.

"Sorry to disturb you, Louis," I said. "Miss Delora is in the little smoking-room, and Bartot is there,—just arrived, I suppose, from Paris. He is terrifying her. She sent me to fetch you."

I saw Louis' lips curl into something which I can only describe as a snarl. After that moment I never even partially trusted him again. He looked like a wild animal, one of those who creep through the hidden places and love to spring upon their prey unseen!

"So!" he muttered. "I come, monsieur. I come."

He followed me out and into the restaurant. As he passed along his features composed themselves. He bent courteously toward me. He even opened the door of the little smoking-room and insisted that I should precede him. I stood on one side then while he went up to the pair. I heard Felicia give a little murmur of relief. Bartot turned round fiercely. The two faced one another, and it seemed to me that unutterable things passed between them. They were like wild animals, indeed,—Louis silent, composed, serene, yet with a jaguar-like glare in his eyes, his body poised, as though to spring or defend himself, as circumstances might dictate. Bartot, who had risen to his feet, was like a clumsy but powerful beast, showing his fierce primitivism through the disguise of clothes and his falsely human form. To me those few seconds were absolutely thrilling! There was another man in the room, who continued writing as though nothing were happening. A couple of strangers passed through on their way to the bar, and seemed to see nothing except the meeting of Louis—the maitre d'hotel—with a possible client. Felicia had let fall her veil, so that her terror was no longer written in her face. She had separated herself now from Bartot, and with an involuntary movement I came over to her side. Then the tension was suddenly broken. It was Louis who showed his teeth, but it was with the razor-edge of civility.