“What the devil is the meaning of this?” he asked, looking from one to the other of us.

I shrugged my shoulders.

“You had better ask mademoiselle,” I answered.

“She is, I believe, an acquaintance of yours.  As for me—­”

“My name is Bartot, sir,” he cried fiercely.

“An excellent name,” I answered, “but unknown to me.  I do not yet understand by what right you intrude into a private room here.”

He laughed hardly.

“’Intrude’!” he cried.  “One does not call it that.  ‘Intrude,’ when I find you two together, eh?”

I turned to the girl, who, with her handkerchief dabbed to her eyes, was still affecting a perfect frenzy of fear.

“Has this person any claims upon you?” I asked.  “He seems to me to be an exceedingly disagreeable fellow.”

Bartot’s face grew purple.  His cheeks seemed to distend and his eyes grow smaller.  It was no longer necessary for him to play a part.  He was becoming angry indeed.

“Monsieur,” he said, “I remember you now.  It was you who tried to flirt with this lady last night in the Cafe des Deux Epingles.  You have not even the excuse of ignorance.  All the world knows that I have claims upon this lady.”

I bowed.

“Claims,” I answered, “which I can assure you I am not in a position to dispute.”

“How is it, then,” he asked fiercely, “that I find you two, strangers last night, together to-day here?”

I altered one of the cartridges in my revolver and let it go with a snap.  Bartot took a quick step backwards.

“It is a long story,” I said softly, “and I doubt whether it would interest you, Monsieur Bartot.  Still, if you are really curious, mademoiselle will satisfy you later.”

I saw a look pass between the two, and I no longer had any doubt whatever.  I knew that they were in collusion, that I had been brought here to be pumped by mademoiselle.

“Monsieur,” Bartot said, “you are apparently armed, and you can leave this room if you will, but I warn you that you will not leave Paris so easily.”

The situation was quite plain to me.  However little flattering it might be to my vanity, I should not have been in the least surprised if Monsieur Bartot had held out his hands, begged my pardon, and ordered a bottle of wine.

“Be reasonable, monsieur,” I begged.  “It is open to every one, surely, to admire mademoiselle?  For the rest, I have been here only a few moments.  So far as I am concerned,” I added, glancing at the table, “mademoiselle has lunched alone.”

“If I could believe that!” Bartot muttered, with a look of coming friendship in his eyes.

“Mademoiselle will assure you,” I continued.

“Then what are you doing here?” he asked.

I raised my eyebrows.

“I was not aware,” I said, “that this was a private restaurant.”

“But these are private rooms,” he answered.  “Still, if it was a mistake,—­I trust mademoiselle always.”