“Your purse is heavy,” I remarked, swinging it on my finger.

“I carry always with me much money,” she answered.  “It is my uncle’s idea.  Some day, I tell him, one of us will be robbed.  He has always one or two hundred pounds in his pocket.  I have there fifty or sixty pounds.  It is foolish, you think?”

“I do,” I answered.  “It rather seems like asking people to rob you.”

“Ah, well, they do not know!” she answered, stepping into the lift.  “I am hungry, Capitaine Rotherby.  I have eaten so little to-day.”

“Louis has chosen the dinner himself,” I remarked, “so we shall probably find it everything that it should be.”

We found our way to the table which had been reserved for us, escorted by one of Louis’ subordinates.  Louis himself was busy in the distance, arranging the seating of a small dinner-party.  He came up to us directly, however.  The waiter was serving us with caviare.

“I hope you will enjoy very much your dinner,” he said, bowing.  “I have taken special pains with everything.  Two dinners to-night I have ordered with my own lips from the chef.  One is yours, and the other the dinner of our friend Monsieur Bartot.”

He pointed to a table a little distance away, where Monsieur Bartot was already dining.  His back was towards us—­broad and ugly, with its rolls of fat flesh around the neck, almost concealing the low collar.

“Some day,” I remarked, “our friend Monsieur Bartot will suffer from apoplexy.”

“It would not be surprising,” Louis answered.  “He is looking very flushed to-night.  The chef has prepared for him a wonderful dinner.  They say that he is never satisfied.  We shall see to-night.”

I looked away with a little gesture of disgust.  Louis was summoned elsewhere, a fact for which I was duly grateful.

“Tell me, Miss Delora,” I said, “how long have you known Louis?”

“Oh! for a very long time,” she answered, a little evasively.  “He is wonderful, they all say.  There is no one quite like him.  A rich man has built a great restaurant in New York, and he offered him his own price if he would go and manage it.  But Monsieur Louis said ‘No!’ He loves the Continent.  He loves London.  He will not go so far away.”

“Monsieur Louis has perhaps, too, other ties here,” I remarked dryly.

She looked at me across the table meaningly.

“Ah!” she said, “Louis—­he does interest himself in many things.  He and my uncle always have had much to say to one another.  What it is all about I do not know, but I heard my uncle say once that Louis very soon would be as rich as he himself.”

“Tell me how long you thought of staying in London?” I asked.

“It is not sure,” she answered.  “My uncle’s business may be settled in a few hours, or it may take him weeks.”

“The selling of his coffee?” I asked dryly.

“But certainly!” she answered.