She appeared to be convinced, but still a little bewildered.  She was silent.

“Don’t you think,” I said, after a short pause, “that it is almost my turn now to ask a few questions?”

She seemed surprised.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Tell me, you are not English,” I said, “and you are not French.  Yet you speak English so well.”

She smiled.

“My father was a Frenchman and my mother a Spaniard,” she answered.  “I was born in South America, but I came to Europe when very young, and have lived in France always.  My people”—­she looked towards the sleeping man as though to include him—­“are all coffee planters.”

“You are going to stay long in London?” I asked.

“My uncle sells his year’s crops there,” she answered.  “When he has finished his business we move on.”

“Will you tell me, then,” I asked, “why you, too, were at the Cafe des Deux Epingles?  You admit that it is the resort of people of mysterious habits.  What place had you there?”

She looked away from me for a moment.  My question seemed to disconcert her, perhaps by reason of its directness.

“Well,” she said, “my uncle has lived for many years in Paris.  He knows it as well as the Parisians themselves.  He has always had a taste for adventure, and I fancy that he has friends who are interested in the place.  At any rate, I have been there with him two or three times, and he is always welcome.”

“From what I have heard,” I remarked, “I should imagine that you and I are the only people who have been allowed to go there without qualifications.”

She glanced as though by accident at the sleeping man opposite.  Then, as though conscious of what she had done, a spot of color burned in her cheeks.  Since the anger which had first inspired her to speech had died away, her manner had been a little shy.  I realized more and more that she must be quite young.

“Perhaps,” she answered.  “I do not understand the place or its habitues.  I only know that while one is there, one must be careful.”

“Tell me,” I asked, “what are you going to do in London while your uncle looks after his business?”

“Amuse myself as best I can, I suppose,” she answered carelessly.  “There are always the shops, and the theatres in the evening.”

“Where are you going to stay?” I inquired.

“At the Milan, I think,” she answered.

Somehow her answer to my question struck me as ominous.  To the Milan, of course, where Louis was all the time predominant!  The girl might be innocent enough of all wrong-doing or knowledge of wrong-doing, but could one think the same of her uncle?  I glanced at him instinctively.  In sleep, his features were by no means prepossessing.

“I may come across you, then,” I ventured.

She smiled at me.  It was wonderful what a difference the smile made in her face.  To me she seemed at that moment radiantly beautiful.