ancing to his bidding, and if that were not sufficient, Monsieur
Bartot could rescue you even from prison. No, you are safe enough,
monsieur, even if you remain here! It is Louis, eh, who is anxious for
you to return to England?"

"My time was nearly up anyhow," I told her. "It is not until this
moment that I have felt inclined to stay."

"Nevertheless," she murmured, "Monsieur goes to London to-morrow. Is
it permitted to ask--"

"Anything," I murmured.

"If monsieur goes alone?"

"I fear so," I answered, "unless mademoiselle--"

She laid her fingers upon my lips.

"Monsieur does not know the elderly gentleman and the very beautiful
girl who sat opposite him last night?" she asked,--"Monsieur Delora
and his niece?"

Somehow I felt convinced, the moment that the question had left her
lips, that her whole interest in me was centred upon my reply. She
concealed her impatience very well, but I realized that, for some
reason or other, I was sitting there by her side solely that I might
answer that question.

"I heard their names last night for the first time," I declared. "It
was Louis who told me about them."

She looked at me for several moments as though anxious to be sure that
I had spoken the truth.

"Mademoiselle!" I said reproachfully. "Let us leave these topics. I am
not interested in the Deloras, or Louis, or Monsieur Bartot. Last
night is finished, and to-morrow I leave. Let us talk for a few
moments of ourselves."

She held up her finger suddenly.

"Listen!" she exclaimed, in a voice of terror.

Footsteps had halted outside the door. She ran to the window and
looked down. In the street below was standing an automobile with
yellow wheels. I was looking over her shoulder, and she clutched my
arm.

"It is he--Bartot!" she cried. "He is here at the private
entrance. Some one has told him that I am here. Mon Dieu! It is he
outside now!"

It was bad acting, and I laughed.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "if Monsieur Bartot is your lover, be thankful
that you have nothing with which to reproach yourself."

I rang the bell. She looked at me for a moment with eyes filled with a
genuine fear. Obviously she did not understand my attitude. From my
trousers pocket I drew a little revolver, whose settings and mechanism
I carefully examined. There was a loud knock at the door and the sound
of voices outside. Monsieur Bartot entered, in a frock-coat too small
for him and a tie too large. When he saw us he fell