“This,” he murmured, “is amazing!  The girl is a fool to bring him here.  She must know that Louis is in it!”

“Who is the man?” I asked.

Lamartine looked at me with a curious expression in his dark eyes.

“Do you mean to say that you cannot guess?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Only that he must be some relation to Delora,” I declared.  “There has been no time, though, for his brother to get across from South America.”

Lamartine smiled.

“You are dull,” he said.  “But watch!  What is going to happen now, I wonder?”

Delora had risen to his feet.  He had the look of a man who has received a shock.  He brushed past some people who were taking their places at a table without remark or apology.  He passed my companion and myself without even, I believe, being conscious of our presence.  He walked straight to the table where the two newcomers sat.  I saw his hand fall upon the shoulder of the other man.

“Ferdinand!” he said.

The lady of the turquoises was leaning forward in her place as though to push Delora away.  A few feet in the background Louis was hovering.

“Ferdinand,” I heard Delora repeat, “what are you doing here?  Who is this person?  You know that you are not well enough to travel.”

The older man looked at him with a slightly puzzled air.  There was a certain vacuity in his expression, for which one found it hard to account.

“You!” he murmured, as though perplexed.  “Why, this is not Paris, Maurice!”

Louis had glided a little nearer to the table.  My lady of the turquoises half rose to her feet.  Her blue eyes were fierce with anger.  She looked as though she would have struck Delora.

“You shall not take him away!” she cried.  “Don’t have anything to say to them!” she added, bending downwards to her companion.  “You are not safe with any one else except me!”

Delora turned towards her with an angry exclamation.

“Madame,” he said, “this gentleman is my relation, and he is ill.  He is certainly not in a condition to be travelling about the country with—­with you!”

Her self-control was beginning to evaporate.  She addressed him shrilly.  People at the surrounding tables were beginning to observe this unusual conversation.

“What, then?” she cried.  “Is he not safer with me than you?  How about Henri—­Henri who came over here because we had been deceived, he and I,—­poor Henri who died?”

“This,” Delora muttered, “is your revenge, then!”

“It is my revenge, and I mean to have it,” she answered, “This afternoon you will see.”

Louis advanced and bowed to the man who still sat at the table, looking a little puzzled, and with his eyes still fixed upon Delora.

“Monsieur,” he said, “shall I serve luncheon?”

There was an instant’s pause.  I fancied that I saw something pass between Louis and Delora.  The latter turned away with a little shrug of the shoulders.