“Dear,” I said, “this is no place for you any longer.  You must come with me, and bring your uncle.”

She held out both her hands.

“Wherever you say, Austen!” she murmured.

A year afterwards I persuaded Felicia to lunch at the Milan.  She was no longer nervous, for we were intensely curious to know if Louis were still there.

“There is no doubt,” I reminded her, “that your Uncle Maurice received the sum of forty thousand pounds in notes.  When he was found shot, there was in his pocket-book a draft to the amount of one hundred and sixty thousand pounds.  The notes had vanished.  I wonder where!”

“I wonder!” she answered.

A waiter whom I knew came up to greet us.  I asked him about Louis.  He held out his hands.

“Monsieur Louis,” he declared, “had the great good-fortune.  A relative who died left him a great sum of money.  The hotel of Benzoli in St. James’ Street was for sale, and Louis he has bought it.  He makes much money now.”

“Lucky Louis!” I murmured.  “How much was this legacy?  Do you know?”

“I have heard, sir,” the man said, bending down, “that it was as much as forty thousand pounds!”

“So do the wicked flourish!” I murmured to Felicia.

“Monsieur will doubtless pay a visit to the Cafe Benzoli?” the man continued.  “The cuisine is excellent, and many of Louis’ friends have followed him there.”

Felicia and I exchanged smiling glances.

“Somehow or other—­” she murmured.

“I think the Milan will be good enough for us!” I said decidedly.

THE END