Louis nodded.

“The most famous,” he said, “whom France has ever possessed, Monsieur Myers is absolutely marvellous,” he declared.  “The man has genius,—­genius as well as executive ability.  It is a terrible war that goes on between him and the haute ecole of crime in this country.”

“Tell me, Louis,” I asked, “is Monsieur Myers’ visit here to-night professional?”

“Monsieur has observation,” Louis answered.  “Why not?”

“You mean,” I asked, “that there are criminals—­people under suspicion—­”

“I mean,” Louis interrupted, “that in this room, at the present moment, are some of the most famous criminals in the world.”

A question half framed died away upon my lips.  Louis, however, divined it.

“You were about to ask,” he said, “how I obtained my entry here.  Monsieur, one had better not ask.  It is one thing to be a thief.  It is quite another to see something of the wonderful life which those live who are at war with society.”

I looked around the room once more.  Again I realized the difference between this gathering of well-dressed men and women and any similar gathering which I had seen in Paris.  The faces of all somehow lacked that tiredness of expression which seems to be the heritage of those who drink the cup of pleasure without spice, simply because the hand of Fate presses it to their lips.  These people had found something else.  Were they not, after all, a little to be envied?  They must know what it was to feel the throb of life, to test the true flavor of its luxuries when there was no certainty of the morrow.  I felt the fascination, felt it almost in my blood, as I looked around.

“You could not specify, I suppose?” I said to Louis.

“How could monsieur ask it?” he replied, a little reproachfully.  “You will be one of the only people who do not belong who have been admitted here, and you will notice,” he continued, “that I have asked for no pledge—­I rely simply upon the honor of monsieur.”

I nodded.

“There is crime and crime, Louis,” said I.  “I have never been able to believe myself that it is the same thing to rob the widow and the millionaire.  I know that I must not ask you any questions,” I continued, “but the girl with Delora,—­the man whom you call Delora,—­she, at least, is innocent of any knowledge of these things?”

Louis smiled.

“Monsieur is susceptible,” he remarked.  “I cannot answer that question.  Mademoiselle is a stranger.  She is but a child.”

“And Monsieur Delora himself?” I asked.  “He comes here when he chooses?  He is not merely a sightseer?”

“No,” Louis repeated, “he is not merely a sightseer!”

“A privileged person,” I remarked.

“He is a wonderful man,” Louis answered calmly.  “He has travelled all over the world.  He knows a little of every capital, of every side of life,—­perhaps,” he added, “of the underneath side.”