Monsieur Decresson touched Louis on the shoulder and motioned him to enter the automobile which was waiting. With many bows and solemn salutes the great car swung off and left me there alone. I watched it until it disappeared, and then, turning in the opposite direction, started to walk toward the Ritz. Curiously enough it never occurred to me to doubt for a moment the assurance which had been given me. I had no longer the slightest fear of arrest.
On the way I passed the Café de Paris. Then I suddenly remembered that strange little note from the girl with the turquoises. I never stopped to consider whether or not I was doing a wise thing. I opened the swing doors and passed into the restaurant. It was almost empty, except for a few people who had sat late over their luncheon. I called Léon to me.
"Léon," I said, "you remember me? I am Captain Rotherby."
He held up his hand.
"It is enough, monsieur," he declared. "If monsieur would be so good."
He drew me a little on one side.
"Mademoiselle still waits," he said in an undertone. "If monsieur will ascend."
"Upstairs?" I asked.
Léon bowed and smiled.
"Mademoiselle is in one of the smaller rooms," he said. "Will monsieur follow me?"
"Why, certainly," I answered.
CHAPTER VII
A DOUBLE ASSIGNATION
I followed Léon upstairs to the region of smaller apartments. At the door of one of these he knocked, and a feminine voice at once bade us enter.
Mademoiselle was sitting upon a lounge, smoking a cigarette. On the table before her stood an empty coffee-cup and an empty liqueur-glass. She looked at me with a little grimace.
"At last!" she exclaimed.
"It is the gentleman whom mademoiselle was expecting?" Léon asked discreetly.
"Certainly," she answered. "You may go, Léon."
We were alone. She gave me her fingers, which I raised to my lips.
"Mademoiselle," I said, "I owe you a thousand apologies. I can assure you, however, that I have come at the earliest possible moment."
She motioned me to sit down upon the lounge by her side.
"Monsieur had a more interesting engagement, perhaps?" she murmured.
"Impossible!" I answered.
Now I had come here with no idea whatever of making love to this young lady. My chief interest in her was because she, too, was an habitué of this mysterious café; and because, from the first, I felt that she had some other than the obvious reason for sending me that little note. Nevertheless, it was for me to conceal these things, and I did not hesitate to take her hand in mine as we sat side by side. She did not draw it away, and she did not encourage me.
"Monsieur," she said, "do not, I beg of you, be rash. It was foolish of me, perhaps, to meet you here. We can talk for a few minutes, and afterwards, perhaps, we may meet again, but I am frightened all the time."
"Monsieur Bartot?" I asked.
She nodded.
"He is very, very jealous," she answered.
"You go with him every night to the restaurant in the Place d'Anjou?" I asked.
"I go there very often," she answered. "Monsieur, unless I am mistaken, is a stranger there."
I nodded.
"Last night," I told her, "I was there for the first time."
"You came," she said, toying with her empty liqueur-glass, "with Louis."
"That is so," I admitted.
"Louis brings no one there without a purpose," she remarked.
"You know Louis, then?" I asked.
She raised her eyebrows.
"All the world knows Louis," she continued. "A smoother-tongued rascal never breathed."
"Louis," I murmured, "would be flattered."
"Louis knows himself," she continued, "and he knows that others know him. When I saw monsieur with him I was sorry."
"You are very kind," I said, "to take so much interest."
She looked at me, for the first time, with some spice of coquetry in her eyes.
"I think that I show my interest," she murmured, "in meeting monsieur here. Tell me," she continued, "why were you there with Louis?"
"A chance affair," I answered. "I met him coming out of the Opera. I was bored, and we went together to the Montmartre. There I think that I was more bored still. It was Louis who proposed a visit to the Café des Deux Épingles."
"Did you know," she asked, "that you would meet that man—the man with whom you quarrelled?"
I shook my head.
"I had no idea of it," I answered.
She leaned just a little towards me.
"Monsieur," she said, "if you seek adventures over here, do not seek them with Louis. He knows no friends, he thinks of nothing but of himself. He is a very dangerous companion. There are others whom it would be better for monsieur to make companions of."
"Mademoiselle," I answered, looking into her eyes, "these things are not so interesting. You sent me last night a little note. When may I see you once more in that wonderful blue gown, and take you myself to the theatre, to supper—where you will?"
She shot a glance at me from under her eyelids. The blind was not drawn, and the weak sunlight played upon her features. She was over-powdered and over-rouged, made up like all the smart women of her world, but her features were still good and her eyes delightful.
"Ah, monsieur," she said, "but that would be doubly imprudent. It is not, surely, well for monsieur to be seen too much in Paris to-day? He was badly hurt, that poor Monsieur Tapilow."
"Mademoiselle," I assured her, "there are times when the risk counts for nothing."
"Are all Englishmen so gallant?" she murmured.
"Mademoiselle," I answered, "with the same inducement, yes!"
"Monsieur has learned how to flatter," she remarked.
"It is an accomplishment which I never mastered," I declared.
She sighed. All the time I knew quite well that she carried on this little war of words impatiently. There were other things of which she desired to speak.
"Tell me, monsieur," she said, "what had he done to you, this man Tapilow?"
I shook my head.
"You must forgive me," I said. "That is between him and me."
"And Monsieur Louis," she murmured.
"Louis knew nothing about it," I declared.
She seemed perplexed. She had evidently made up her mind that Louis had taken me there with the object of meeting Tapilow, and for some reason the truth was interesting to her.
"It was a quarrel about a woman, of course," she murmured—"the friend of monsieur, or perhaps a relation. I am jealous! Tell me, then, that it was a relation."
"Mademoiselle,"