“Louis,” I said, “it would make me much more comfortable if you could be a little more candid.  You might tell me in plain words what these men want from Delora.  How am I to know that he is not the thief, and these others are seeking only their own?”

Louis was silent for a moment.  He glanced carelessly around the room to assure himself that there were no listeners.

“I can tell you no more, sir,” he said, “for if I told you more, I should tell you lies.  I will only remind you that you owe us a debt which I am asking you to pay, and that it is the uncle of mademoiselle whose place you are taking.”

“I am not in the least convinced,” I said, “that I am aiding the uncle of mademoiselle in allowing myself to be attacked in his place.”

“As for that,” Louis answered, “you shall be assured to-morrow, and, if you will, there is another adventure still to be undertaken.  You shall go to see Mr. Delora, and be thanked with his own lips.”

“There is some sense in that, Louis,” I allowed, lighting another cigarette, “but I warn you I shall make him tell me the truth.”

Louis smiled inscrutably.

“Why not, monsieur?” he said.

“Tell me this, at any rate, Louis,” I asked.  “What is it that you hope for from this evening?  You believe that some one will break in with the idea of robbing or else murdering Mr. Delora.  They will find me there instead.  What is it you hope,—­that they will kill me, or that I shall kill them, or what?”

“That is a very reasonable question,” Louis admitted.  “I will answer it.  In the first place, I would have them know that they have not all the wits on their side, and if they plot, we, too, can counterplot.  In the second place, I wish you to see the man or the men face to face who make this attempt, and be prepared, if necessary, to recognize them hereafter.  And in the third place, there is one man to whom, if he should himself make the attempt, I should be very glad indeed if harm came of it.”

“Thank you, Louis,” I said, “I am not proposing to do murder if I can help it.”

“One must defend one’s self,” Louis said.

“Naturally,” I answered, “up to a certain point.  You have nothing more to tell me, then?”

“Nothing, sir,” Louis answered calmly.  “I wish you once more bonne fortune!”

I nodded, and left the cafe.  Of the hall-porter I made an inquiry as to the man who had had a fit in the cafe earlier in the evening.

“The doctor has been to see him twice, sir,” the man told me.  “It was a sort of apoplectic stroke, brought on by something which he had eaten.”

“Will he recover?” I asked.

“The doctor says it is serious,” the man answered, “but that with careful nursing he will pull round.  We have just sent a telegram to a lady in Paris to come over.”

I smiled as I rang the bell for the lift.  So I might see my lady of the turquoises again.