“Listen,” she said, leaning forward.  “Do you mean to say that that was your first visit to the Cafe des Deux Epingles?”

“Absolutely my first visit,” I answered.  “I met Louis by accident that night.  He knew that I was bored, and he took me there.”

“You met him at the Opera and you asked him who we were,” she remarked.

“That is quite true,” I admitted, “but I scarcely see that there was anything impertinent in that.  Afterwards we spoke together for a little time.  I told him that I was alone in Paris and bored.  It was because I was alone that we went out together.”

Her forehead was wrinkled with perplexity.  Her eyes seemed always to be seeking mine, as though anxious to learn whether I were indeed speaking the truth.

“I do not understand at all,” she said.  “You mean to tell me, then, that you know nothing of Louis except as a maitre d’hotel, that you were a chance visitor to Paris this week?”

“Absolutely,” I answered.

Suddenly a thought seemed to occur to her.  She drew away from me.  In her eyes I seemed to see reflected the tragedy of those few moments in the Cafe des Deux Epingles.

“How can I believe you?” she exclaimed.  “Remember that I saw you strike that man!  It was horrible!  I have never seen anything like it!  You were like a wild animal!  They tell me that he was very badly hurt.  Is it true?”

“I believe so,” I answered.  “I am afraid that I hope so.”

“And you,” she continued, “go free!  You have not even the air of one who flies for his life.  Yet you tell me that you are not one of those—­those—­”

“Those what?” I asked eagerly.

“Those who frequent the Cafe des Deux Epingles,” she said slowly,—­“those who take advantage of the peculiar protection which some of those behind the scenes there are able to extend to their friends.”

I shook my head.

“I know nothing of the place beyond that brief visit,” I answered.  “I know nothing of Louis except as a maitre d’hotel in my favorite restaurant.  I know nothing of the people who frequent the Cafe des Deux Epingles except those I saw there that night.  You,” I added, “were one of them.  I can assure you that when I went with Louis to that place I had not the slightest idea that I should meet the person whom I did meet.”

“What is your name?” she asked abruptly.

I handed her my card.  She read it with a perplexed face.  The man opposite to her moved uneasily in his sleep.  She crumpled the card up in her hands and remained for a few moments apparently deep in thought.

“You are an Englishman?” she asked, after a short pause.

“Decidedly!” I answered.

“I have not known many Englishmen,” she said slowly.  “I have lived in the country, near Bordeaux, and in Paris, most of my days.  It is very certain, though, that I have never seen an Englishman like you.  I was looking into your eyes when that man came into the room.  I saw you rise to strike him.”