“It is better, that pain, monsieur?”

He replied with an uncertain nod, pressing a careful hand to his side. “... wound that animal gave me a month ago.”

“Which animal?”

“Monsieur of the garotte, Liane; recently the assassin of de Lorgnes; before that the ex-chauffeur of the Chateau de Montalais.”

“Albert Dupont?”

“As you say, it is not a name.”

“The same?” Her old terror revived.  “My God! what have I ever done to that one that he should seek my life?”

“What had de Lorgnes?”

Her eyes turned away, she sat for a moment in silent thought, started suddenly to speak but checked the words before one passed her lips, and—­as Lanyard saw quite plainly—­hastened to substitute others.

“No:  I do not understand at all!  What do you think?”

Lanyard indicated a shrug with sufficient clearness, meaning to say, she probably knew as much as if not more than he.

“But how did he get in?  I had not one suspicion I was not alone until that handkerchief——­”

“Naturally.”

“And you, my friend?”

“I saw him enter, and followed.”

This was strictly within the truth:  Lanyard had now no doubt Dupont and the man who had reconnoitered from the service-door were one.  But it was no part of his mind to tell the whole truth to Liane.  She might be as grateful as she ought to be, but she was still ...  Liane Delorme ... a woman to be tested rather than trusted.

“I must tell you.  But perhaps you knew there were agents de police in the restaurant to-night?”

Liane’s head described a negative; her violet eyes were limpid pools of candour.

“I am so much a stranger in Paris,” Lanyard pursued, “I would not know them.  But I thought you, perhaps——­”

“No, no, my friend, I have nothing to do with the police, I know little about them.  Not only that, but I was so interested in our talk, and then inexpressibly shocked, I paid attention to nothing else.”

“I understand.  Otherwise you must have noticed who followed me.”

“You were followed?”

And she had found the effrontery to chide him for lack of faith in her!  He was in pain:  for all that, the moment seemed amusing.

“We are followed, I assure you,” Lanyard replied gravely.  “One man or two—­I don’t know how many—­in a town-car.”

“But you are sure?”

“All we could get was a hansom drawn by a snail.  The automobile, running without lights, went no faster, kept a certain distance behind us all the way from the Place Pigalle to the apartment of Mademoiselle Reneaux.  What have you to say to that?  Furthermore, when Mademoiselle Reneaux had persuaded me to take refuge in her apartment—­who knew what they designed?—­one man left the automobile as it passed her door and stood on watch across the way.  Could one require proof that one was followed?”