“To-morrow, I think,” I answered, “if I am still free.”

“Free!” she repeated scornfully.  “If you are protected, who is there who will dare to touch you?  Monsieur Decresson has all the police dancing 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 back with a theatrical start.

“Susette!” he exclaimed.  “Susette!  And you, sir!” he added, turning to me.

He slammed the door and stood with his back to it.