“Steady, Will!” called Monty from below; but it was altogether too late for advice.  Will gathered himself like a spring, and hurled the Greek downstairs backward.

Then the point of Monty’s strategy appeared.  He caught him, saved him from being stunned against the wall, and, before the Greek could recover sufficiently to use heels and teeth or whisk out the knife he kept groping for, hurled him a stage farther on his journey—­face forward this time down to where Fred and I were waiting.  We kicked him out into the street too dazed to do anything but wander home.

“Are you hurt, Will?” laughed Monty.  “This isn’t the States, you know; by gad, they’ll jail you here if you do your own police work!  Instead of Brussels I’d have had to stay and hire lawyers to defend you!”

“Aw—­quit preaching!” Yerkes answered.  “If I hadn’t seen you there on the stairs with your mouth open I’d have been satisfied to put him down and spank him!”

It was then that the much more unexpected struck us speechless—­even Monty for the moment, who is not much given to social indecision.  We had not known there was a woman guest in that hotel.  One does not look in Zanzibar for ladies with a Mayfair accent unaccompanied by menfolk able to protect them.  Yet an indubitable Englishwoman, expensively if carelessly dressed, came to the head of the stairs and stood beside Yerkes looking down at the rest of us with a sort of well bred, rather tolerant scorn.

“Am I right in believing this is Lord Montdidier?” she asked, pronouncing the word as it should be—­Mundidger.

She had been very beautiful.  She still was handsome in a hard-lipped, bold way, with abundant raven hair and a complexion that would have been no worse for a touch of rouge.  She seemed to scorn all the conventional refinements, though.  Her lacy white dress, open at the neck, was creased and not too clean, but she wore in her bosom one great jewel like a ruby, set in brilliants, that gave the lie to poverty provided the gems were real.  And the amber tube through which she smoked a cigarette was seven or eight inches long and had diamonds set in a gold band round its middle.  She wore no wedding ring that I could see; and she took no more notice of Will Yerkes beside her than if he had been a part of the furniture.

“Why do you ask?” asked Monty, starting upstairs.  She had to make way for him, for Will Yerkes stood his ground.

“A fair question!” she laughed.  Her voice had a hard ring, but was very well trained and under absolute control.  I received the impression that she had been a singer at some time.  “I am Lady Saffren Waldon—­Isobel Saffren Waldon.”

Fred and I had followed Monty up and were close behind him.  I heard him mutter, “Oh, lord!” under his breath.

“I knew your brother,” she added.

“I know you did.”

“You think that gives me no claim on your acquaintance?  Perhaps it doesn’t.  But as an unprotected woman—­”