“Now, my dear friend, tell me all and get it over.”

“My dear Madame Brandt—­” I began.

She interrupted me.  “For goodness’ sake don’t call me that.  It makes a cold shiver run down my back.  I’m either Lola to you or nothing.”

“Then, my dear Lola,” said I, “the first thing I must tell you is that I did not send for you.”

“What do you mean?  The telegram?”

“It was sent by Anastasius Papadopoulos.”

“Anastasius?” She bent forward and looked at me.  “What is he doing here?”

“Heaven knows!” said I.  “But what he has done has been to find Captain Vauvenarde.  I am glad he has done that, but I am deeply sorry he sent you the telegram.”

“Sorry?  Why?”

“Because there was no reason for your coming,” I said with unwonted gravity.  “It would have been better if you had stayed in London, and it will be best if you take the boat back again to-morrow.”

She remained silent for a while.  Then she said in a low voice: 

“He won’t have me?”

“He hasn’t been asked,” I said.  “He will, as far as I can command the situation, never be asked.”

On that I had fully determined; and, when she inquired the reason, I told her.

“I proposed that you should reunite yourself with an honourable though somewhat misguided gentleman.  I’ve had the reverse of pleasure in meeting Captain Vauvenarde, and I regret to say, though he is still misguided, he can scarcely be termed honourable.  The term ‘gentleman’ has still to be accurately defined.”

She made a writhing movement of impatience.

“Tell me straight out what he’s doing in Algiers.  You’re trying to make things easy for me.  It’s the way of your class.  It isn’t the way of mine.  I’m used to brutality.  I like it better.  Why did he leave the army and why is he in Algiers?”

“If you prefer the direct method, my dear Lola,” said I—­and the name came quite trippingly on my tongue—­“I’ll employ it.  Your husband has apparently been kicked out of the army and is now running a gambling-hell.”

She took the blow bravely; but it turned her face haggard like a paroxysm of physical pain.  After a few moments’ silence, she said: 

“It must have been awful for him.  He was a proud man.”

“He is changed,” I replied gently.  “Pride is too hampering a quality for a knight of industry to keep in his equipment.”

“Tell me how you met him,” she said.

I rapidly sketched the whole absurd history, from my encounter with Anastasius Papadopoulos in Marseilles to my parting with him on the previous night.  I softened down, as much as I could, the fleshiness of Captain Vauvenarde and the rolls of fat at the back of his neck, but I portrayed the villainous physiognomies of his associates very neatly.  I concluded by repeating my assertion that our project had proved itself to be abortive.

“He must be pretty miserable,” said Lola.