Arnold frowned slightly.

“Isn’t that a little difficult?” he protested.  “Mr. Weatherley has sent me up here for no other reason.  He has given me an exact commission, has told me even the words I am to use.  What excuse can I possibly make?”

She smiled.

“You shall be relieved of all responsibility,” she declared.  “If I tell my husband that I do not wish you to obey his bidding, that will be sufficient.  It is a matter of which my husband understands little.  There are people whose interest it is to protect Rosario.  It is they who have spoken, without a doubt, this morning through the telephone, but my husband does not understand.  Rosario must take care of himself.  He runs his own risks.  He is a man, and he knows very well what he is doing.”

Arnold looked at her thoughtfully.

“Do you seriously suppose, then,” he asked, “that the object of my message is to bid Mr. Rosario keep away from here because of some actual danger?”

“Why not?  Mr. Rosario has chosen to interfere in a very difficult and dangerous matter.  He runs his own risks and he asks for a big reward.  It is not our place to protect him.”

She raised her veil and he looked at her closely.  She was still as beautiful as he had thought her last night, but her complexion was pallid almost to fragility, and there were faint violet lines under her eyes.

“You have not slept,” he said.  “It was the fear of last night.”

“I slept badly,” she admitted, “but that passes.  This afternoon I shall rest.”

“I cannot help thinking,” he went on, “about those men who watched the house last night.  They could have been after no good.  I wish you would let me go to the police-station.  Or would you like me to come and watch myself, to-night or to-morrow night, to see if they come again?”

She shook her head firmly.

“No!” she decided.  “It wouldn’t do any good.  Just now, at any rate, it is Rosario they want.”

Their conversation was interrupted for several moments while she exchanged greetings with friends passing in and out of the restaurant.  Then she turned again to her companion.

“Tell me,” she asked, a little abruptly, “why are you a clerk in the city?  You do not come of that order of people.”

“Necessity,” he assured her promptly.  “I hadn’t a sovereign in the world when your husband engaged me.”

“You were not brought up for such a life!”

“Not altogether,” he admitted.  “It suits me very well, though.”

“Poor boy!” she murmured.  “You, too, have had evil fortune.  Perhaps the black hand has shadowed us both.”

“A man makes his own life,” he answered, impulsively, “but you—­you were made for happiness.  It is your right.”

She glanced for a moment at the rings upon her fingers.  Then she looked into his eyes.

“I married Mr. Weatherley,” she reminded him.  “Do you think that if I had been happy I should have done that?  Do you think that, having done it, I deserve to know, or could know, what happiness really means?”