ok with the man who sat opposite. Surely the poor
fool was ready for the plucking? But Madame, who sat beside her, frowned
upon them both. She had seen things which had puzzled her. She signed to
them to wait.

She leaned over and flashed her great black eyes upon him.

"Monsieur enjoys himself like this every night in Paris?"

A soft, a very seductive, voice. The woman who envied her success
compared it to the purring of a cat. Men as a rule found no fault with
it, especially those who heard it for the first time.

Duncombe set down his glass, now almost empty. He looked from the stain
on the table-cloth into the eyes of Madame, and again she thought them
very unlike the eyes of a drunken man.

"Why not? It's the one city in the world to enjoy one's self in.
Half-past four, and here we are as jolly as anything. Chucked out of
everywhere in London at half-past twelve. 'Time, gentlemen, please!'
And out go the lights. Jove, I wonder what they'd think of this at the
Continental! Let's--let's have another bottle."

The fair-haired girl--Flossie to her friends, Mademoiselle Mermillon
until you had been introduced--whispered in his ear. He shook his head
vaguely. She had her arm round his neck. He removed it gently.

"We'll have another here first anyhow," he declared. "Hi, Garcon! Ring
the bell, there's a good chap, Monsieur--dash it, I've forgotten your
name. No, don't move. I'll do it myself."

He rose and staggered towards the door.

"The bell isn't that way, Monsieur," Madame exclaimed. "It is to the
right. Louis, quick!"

Monsieur Louis sprang to his feet. There was a queer grating little
sound, followed by a sharp click. Duncombe had swung round and faced
them. He had turned the key in the door, and was calmly pocketing it.
The hand which held that small shining revolver was certainly not the
hand of a drunken man.

They all three looked at him in wonder--Madame, Monsieur Louis, and
Mademoiselle Flossie. The dark eyebrows of Madame almost met, and her
eyes were full of the promise of evil things. Monsieur Louis, cowering
back from that steadily pointed revolver, was white with the inherited
cowardice of the degenerate. Flossie, who had drunk more wine than any
of them, was trying to look as though it were a joke. Duncombe, with his
disordered evening clothes, his stained shirt-front and errant tie, was
master of the situation. He came and stood a few feet away from them.
His blundering French accent and s