She shuddered.  I leaned across towards her.

“Listen,” I said, “I do not wish you to think me worse than I am.  You sympathize with that man whom I struck down.  You look upon me as a sort of would-be assassin.  You need not.  I tell you, upon my honor, that if ever a man in this world deserved death, he deserved it.”

“From you?” she asked.

“From me!” I answered firmly.  “It was not, perhaps, a personal matter, but I have a brother,—­listen, mademoiselle!” I continued.  “He is a cripple.  He was thrown from his horse—­he was master of hounds in those days—­and he has never been able to walk since.  He was married to a woman whom he loved, a poor girl whom he had made wealthy, and to whom he had given a great position.  She loved him, and she was content, after his accident, to give her life to him.  Then that man came, the man whom you saw me punish.  I tell you that this was no chance affair,” I went on.  “He set himself deliberately to win her heart.  How far he succeeded I do not know.  I can only tell you that she left my brother’s home with him.  The man was his guest at the time,—­was his guest from the beginning of the affair.”

The girl’s eyes blazed.  Even in that dim light I could see the dark blue fire in them.

“You did well!” she said.  “For that I have no more to say.  One who wrongs the helpless should be punished.  But I do not understand this,” she added.  “I do not understand why those people at the Cafe des Deux Epingles should shield you when you are not one of them,—­when you have no knowledge of any of them save the very slightest.  They are not philanthropists, those people.  Some day or other you will have to pay the price!”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“I have never refused to pay my just debts,” I said.  “If any one of them comes to me with a definite request which I can grant, you may be very sure that I shall grant it.”

“You are not already their servant, then?” she asked.  “You are sure, quite sure of that?”

“In what way?” I asked.

“You look honest,” she said.  “Perhaps you are.  Perhaps I have doubted you without a cause.  But I will ask you this question.  Has it been suggested to you by any of them that you should watch us—­my uncle and me?”

“On my honor, no!” I answered earnestly.

She was evidently puzzled.  Little by little the animosity seemed to have died away from her face.  She looked at the sleeping man thoughtfully, and then once more at me.

“Tell me,” she said,—­“do not think, please, that I am inquisitive, but I should like to believe that you are not one of those whom we need fear,—­is Louis indeed an ordinary acquaintance of yours?”

“He is scarcely that,” I answered.  “He is simply the maitre d’hotel at a restaurant I frequent.  I had never in my life seen him before, except in his restaurant.  When he spoke to me at the Opera I did not for some time recognize him.”