The Lost Ambassador E-Book

E. Phillips Oppenheim

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Captain Austen Rotherby is on a mission of revenge in Paris and chances upon Louis, the head waiter of his favorite restaurant. Bored, he follows Louis to a shady café where he spots a pair he’s long been intrigued by – a South American gentleman and a young girl. Because of certain complications, Captain Rotheby finds himself forced to leave Paris, only to find himself travelling with the aforementioned gentleman, Mr. Delora, and his niece, Felicia. Arriving in London, Mr. Delora falls ill and excuses himself, leaving Captain Rotheby to take care of Felicia. They install themselves at the Milan Hotel, where Louis works, and waits for Mr. Delora, who seems to have vanished into thin air...

Leseprobe

Contents

I. A RENCONTRE

II. A CAFÉ IN PARIS

III. DELORA

IV. DANGEROUS PLAY

V. SATISFACTION

VI. AN INFORMAL TRIBUNAL

VII. A DOUBLE ASSIGNATION

VIII. LOUIS INSISTS

IX. A TRAVELLING ACQUAINTANCE

X. DELORA DISAPPEARS

XI. THROUGH THE TELEPHONE

XII. FELICIA DELORA

XIII. LOUIS, MAÎTRE D’HÔTEL

XIV. LOUIS EXPLAINS

XV. A DANGEROUS IMPERSONATION

XVI. TWO OF A TRADE

XVII. A VERY SPECIAL DINNER

XVIII. CONTRASTS

XIX. WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS

XX. A TERRIBLE NIGHT

XXI. A CHANGE OF PLANS

XXII. A FORMAL CALL

XXIII. FELICIA

XXIV. A TANTALIZING GLIMPSE

XXV. PRIVATE AND DIPLOMATIC

XXVI. NEARLY

XXVII. WAR

XXVIII. CHECK

XXIX. AN UNSATISFACTORY INTERVIEW

XXX. TO NEWCASTLE BY ROAD

XXXI. AN INTERESTING DAY

XXXII. A PROPOSAL

XXXIII. FELICIA HESITATES

XXXIV. AN APPOINTMENT WITH DELORA

XXXV. A NARROW ESCAPE

XXXVI. AN ABORTIVE ATTEMPT

XXXVII. DELORA RETURNS

XXXVIII. AT BAY

XXXIX. THE UNEXPECTED

I. A RENCONTRE

There was no particular reason why, after having left the Opera House, I should have retraced my steps and taken my place once more amongst the throng of people who stood about in the entresol, exchanging greetings and waiting for their carriages. A backward glance as I had been about to turn into the Place de l’Opéra had arrested my somewhat hurried departure. The night was young, and where else was such a sight to be seen? Besides, was it not amongst some such throng as this that the end of my search might come?

I took up my place just inside, close to one of the pillars, and, with an unlit cigarette still in my mouth, watched the flying chausseurs, the medley of vehicles outside, the soft flow of women in their white opera cloaks and jewels, who with their escorts came streaming down the stairs and out of the great building, to enter the waiting carriages and motor-cars drawn up in the privileged space within the enclosure, or stretching right down into the Boulevard. I stood there, watching them drive off one by one. I was borne a little nearer to the door by the rush of people, and I was able, in most cases, to hear the directions of the men as they followed their womankind into the waiting vehicles. In nearly every case their destination was one of the famous restaurants. Music begets hunger in most capitals, and the cafés of Paris are never so full as after a great night at the Opera. To-night there had been a wonderful performance. The flow of people down the stairs seemed interminable. Young women and old,–sleepy-looking beauties of the Southern type, whose dark eyes seemed half closed with a languor partly passionate, partly of pride; women of the truer French type,–brilliant, smiling, vivacious, mostly pale, seldom good-looking, always attractive. A few Germans, a fair sprinkling of Englishwomen, and a larger proportion still of Americans, whose women were the best dressed of the whole company. I was not sorry that I had returned. It was worth watching, this endless stream of varying types.

Towards the end there came out two people who were becoming almost familiar figures to me. The man was one of those whose nationality was not so easily surmised. He was tall and thin, with iron-gray hair, complexion so sallow as to be almost yellow, black moustache and imperial, handsome in his way, distinguished, indescribable. By his side was a girl who had the air of wearing her first long skirt, whose hair was arranged in somewhat juvenile fashion, and whose dark eyes were still glowing with the joy of the music. Her figure, though very slim, was delightful, and she walked as though her feet touched the clouds. Her laugh, which I heard distinctly as she brushed by me only a few feet away, was like music. Of all the people who had passed me, or whom I had come across during my fortnight’s stay in Paris, there was no one half so attractive. The girl was absolutely charming; the man, remarkable not only in himself, but for a certain air of repressed emotion, which, while it robbed his features of the dignity of repose, was still, in a way, fascinating. They entered a waiting motor-car splendidly appointed, and I heard the man tell the tall, liveried footman to drive to the Ritz. I leaned forward a little eagerly as they went. I watched the car glide off and disappear, watched it until it was out of sight, and afterwards, even, watched the spot where it had vanished. Then, with a little sigh, I turned back once more into the great hall. There seemed to be no one left now of any interest. The women had become ordinary, the men impossible. With a little sigh I too aimlessly descended the steps, and stood for a moment uncertain which way to turn.

“Monsieur is looking for a light?” a quiet voice said in my ear.

I turned, and found myself confronted by a Frenchman, who had also just issued from the building and was himself lighting a cigarette. He was clean-shaven and pale, so pale that his complexion was almost olive. He had soft, curious-looking eyes. He was of medium height, dark, correctly dressed according to the fashion of his country, although his tie was black and his studs of unusual size. Something about his face struck me from the first as familiar, but for the moment I could not recall having seen him before.

“Thank you very much,” I answered, accepting the match which he offered.

The night was clear, and breathlessly still. The full yellow moon was shining in an absolutely cloudless sky. The match–an English wax one, by the way–burned without a flicker. I lit my cigarette, and turning around found my companion still standing by my side.

“Monsieur does not do me the honor to recollect me,” he remarked, with a faint smile.

I looked at him steadfastly.

“I am sorry,” I said. “Your face is perfectly familiar to me, and yet–No, by Jove, I have it!” I broke off, with a little laugh. “It’s Louis, isn’t it, from the Milan?”

“Monsieur’s memory has soon returned,” he answered, smiling. “I have been chief maître d’hôtel in the café there for some years. The last time I had the honor of serving monsieur there was only a few weeks ago.”

I remembered him perfectly now. I remembered, even, the occasion of my last visit to the café. Louis, with upraised hat, seemed as though he would have passed on, but, curiously enough, I felt a desire to continue the conversation. I had not as yet admitted the fact even to myself; but I was bored, weary of my search, weary to death of my own company and the company of my own acquaintances. I was reluctant to let this little man go.

“You visit Paris often?” I asked.

“But naturally, monsieur,” Louis answered, accepting my unspoken invitation by keeping pace with me as we strolled towards the Boulevard. “Once every six weeks I come over here. I go to the Ritz, Paillard’s, the Café de Paris,–to the others also. It is an affair of business, of course. One must learn how the Frenchman eats and what he eats, that one may teach the art.”

“But you are a Frenchman yourself, Louis,” I remarked.

“But, monsieur,” he answered, “I live in London. Voilà tout. One cannot write menus there for long, and succeed. One needs inspiration.”

“And you find it here?” I asked.

Louis shrugged his shoulders.

“Paris, monsieur,” he answered, “is my home. It is always a pleasure to me to see smiling faces, to see men and women who walk as though every footstep were taking them nearer to happiness. Have you never noticed, monsieur,” he continued, “the difference? They do not plod here as do your English people. There is a buoyancy in their footsteps, a mirth in their laughter, an expectancy in the way they look around, as though adventures were everywhere. I cannot understand it, but one feels it directly one sets foot in Paris.”

I nodded–a little bitterly, perhaps.

“It is temperament,” I answered. “We may envy, but we cannot acquire it.”

“It seems strange to see monsieur alone here,” Louis remarked. “In London, it is always so different. Monsieur has so many acquaintances.”

I was silent for a moment.

“I am here in search of some one,” I told Louis. “It isn’t a very pleasant mission, and the memory of it is always with me.”

“A search!” Louis repeated thoughtfully. “Paris is a large place, monsieur.”

“On the contrary,” I answered, “it is small enough if a man will but play the game. A man, who knows his Paris, must be in one of half-a-dozen places some time during the day.”

“It is true,” Louis admitted. “Yet monsieur has not been successful.”

“It has been because some one has warned the man of whom I am in search!” I declared.

“There are worse places,” he remarked, “in which one might be forced to spend one’s time.”

“In theory, excellent, Louis,” I said. “In practice, I am afraid I cannot agree with you. So far,” I declared, gloomily, “my pilgrimage has been an utter failure. I cannot meet, I cannot hear of, the man who I know was flaunting it before the world three weeks ago.”

Louis shrugged his shoulders.

“Monsieur can do no more than seek,” he remarked. “For the rest, one may leave many burdens behind in the train at the Gare du Nord.”

I shook my head.

“One cannot acquire gayety by only watching other people who are gay,” I declared. “Paris is not for those who have anxieties, Louis. If ever I were suffering from melancholia, for instance, I should choose some other place for a visit.”

Louis laughed softly.

“Ah! Monsieur,” he answered, “you could not choose better. There is no place so gay as this, no place so full of distractions.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“It is your native city,” I reminded him.

“That goes for nothing,” Louis answered. “Where I live, there always I make my native city. I have lived in Vienna and Berlin, Budapest and Palermo, Florence and London. It is not an affair of the place. Yet of all these, if one seeks it, there is most distraction to be found here. Monsieur does not agree with me,” he added, glancing into my face. “There is one thing more which I would tell him. Perhaps it is the explanation. Paris, the very home of happiness and gayety, is also the loneliest and the saddest city in the world for those who go alone.”

“There is truth in what you say, Louis,” I admitted.

“The very fact,” he continued slowly, “that all the world amuses itself, all the world is gay here, makes the solitude of the unfortunate who has no companion a thing more triste, more keenly to be felt. Monsieur is alone?”

“I am alone,” I admitted, “except for the companions of chance whom one meets everywhere.”

We had been walking for some time slowly side by side, and we came now to a standstill. Louis held up his hand and called a taximeter.

“Monsieur goes somewhere to sup, without a doubt,” he remarked.

I remained upon the pavement.

“Really, I don’t know,” I answered undecidedly. “There is a great deal of truth in what you have been saying. A man alone here, especially at night, seems to be looked upon as a sort of pariah. Women laugh at him, men pity him. It is only the Englishman, they think, who would do so foolish a thing.”

Louis hesitated. There was a peculiar smile at the corners of his lips which I did not quite understand.

“If monsieur would honor me,” he said apologetically, “I am going to-night to visit one or perhaps two of the smallest restaurants up in the Montmartre. They are by way of being fashionable now, and they tell me that there is an Homard Speciale with a new sauce which must be tasted at the Abbaye.”

All the apology in Louis’ tone was wasted. It troubled me not in the least that my companion should be a maître d’hôtel. I did not hesitate for a second.

“I’ll come with pleasure, Louis,” I said, “on condition that I am host. It is very good of you to take pity upon me. We will take this taximeter, shall we?”

Louis bowed. Once more I fancied that there was something in his face which I did not altogether understand.

“It is an honor, monsieur,” he said. “We will start, then, with the Abbaye.”

II. A CAFÉ IN PARIS

The Paris taximeters are good, and our progress was rapid. We passed through the crowded streets, where the women spread themselves out like beautiful butterflies, where the electric lights were deadened by the brilliance of the moon, where men, bent double over the handles of their bicycles, shot hither and thither with great paper lanterns alight in front of them. We passed into the quieter streets, though even here the wayfarers whom we met were obviously bent on pleasure, up the hill, till at last we pulled up at one of the best-known restaurants in the locality. Here Louis was welcomed as a prince. The manager, with many exclamations and gesticulations, shook hands with him like a long-lost brother. The maîtres d’hôtel all came crowding up for a word of greeting. A table in the best part of the room, which was marked reservé, was immediately made ready. Champagne, already in its pail of ice, was by our side almost before we had taken our places.

I had been here a few nights before, alone, and had found the place uninspiring enough. To-night, except that Louis told me the names of many of the people, and that the supper was the best meal which I had eaten in Paris, I was very little more amused. The nigger, the Spanish dancing-girl with her rolling eyes, the English music-hall singer with her unmistakable Lancashire accent, went through the same performance. The gowns of the women were wonderful,–more wonderful still their hats, their gold purses, the costly trifles which they carried. A woman by our side sat looking into a tiny pocket-mirror of gold studded with emeralds, powdering her face the while with a powder-puff to match, in the centre of which were more emeralds, large and beautifully cut. Louis noticed my scrutiny.

“The wealth of France,” he whispered in my ear, “is spent upon its women. What the Englishman spends at his club or on his sports the Frenchman spends upon his womankind. Even the bourgeoisie, who hold their money with clenched fists like that,” he gesticulated, striking the table, “for their women they spend, spend freely. They do all this, and the great thing which they ask in return is that they are amused. After all, monsieur,” he continued, “they are logical. What a man wants most in life, in the intervals between his work, is amusement. It is amusement that keeps him young, keeps him in health. It is his womankind who provide that amusement.”

“And if one does not happen to be married to a Frenchwoman?”

Louis nodded sympathetically.

“Monsieur is feeling like that,” he said, as he sipped his wine thoughtfully. “Yes, it is very plain! Yet monsieur is not always sad. I have seen him often at my restaurant, the guest or the host of many pleasant parties. There is a change since those days, a change indeed. I noticed it when I ventured to address monsieur on the steps of the Opera House.”

I remained gloomily silent. It was one thing to avail myself of the society of a very popular little maître d’hôtel, holiday making in his own capital, and quite another to take him even a few steps into my confidence. So I said nothing, but my eyes, which travelled around the room, were weary.

“After all,” Louis continued, helping himself to a cigarette, “what is there in a place like this to amuse? We are not Americans or tourists. The Montmartre is finished. The novelists and the story-tellers have killed it. The women come here because they love to show their jewelry, to flirt with the men. The men come because their womankind desire it, and because it is their habit. But for the rest there is nothing. The true Parisian may come here, perhaps, once or twice a year,–no more. For the man of the world–such as you and I, monsieur,–these places do not exist.”

I glanced at my companion a little curiously. There was something in his manner distinctly puzzling. With his lips he was smiling approval at the little danseuse who was pirouetting near our table, but it seemed to me that his mind was busy with other thoughts. Suddenly he turned his head toward mine.

“Monsieur must remember,” he said quietly, “that a place like this is as the froth on our champagne. It is all show. It exists and it passes away. This very restaurant may be unknown in a year’s time,–a beer palace for the Germans, a den of absinthe and fiery brandy for the cochers. It is for the tourists, for the happy ladies of the world, that such a place exists. For those who need other things–other things exist.”

“Go on, Louis,” I said quietly. “You have something in your mind. What is it?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that I could take monsieur somewhere where he would be more entertained. There is nothing to do there, nothing to see, little music. But it is a place,–it has an atmosphere. It is different. I cannot explain. Monsieur would understand if he were there.”

“Then, for Heaven’s sake, let us pay our bill and go!” I exclaimed. “We have both had enough of this, at any rate.”

Louis did not immediately reply. I turned around–we were sitting side by side–wondering at his lack of response. What I saw startled me. The man’s whole expression had changed. His mouth had come together with a new firmness. A frown which I had never seen before had darkened his forehead. His eyes had become little points of light. I realized then, perhaps for the first time, their peculiar color,–a sort of green tinged with gray. He presented the appearance of a man of intelligence and acumen who is thinking deeply over some matter of vital importance.

“Well, what is it, Louis?” I asked. “Are you repenting of your offer already? Don’t you want to take me to this other place?”

“It is not that, monsieur,” Louis answered softly, “only I was wondering if I had been a little rash.”

“Rash?” I repeated.

Louis nodded his head slowly, but he paused for several moments before speaking.

“I was only wondering,” said he, “whether, after all, it would amuse you. There is nothing to be seen, not so much as here. Afterwards, perhaps, you might regret–you might think that I had done wrong in not telling you certain things about the place which must remain secret.”

“We will risk that,” I answered, rising. “Let me come with you and I will judge for myself.”

Louis followed my example, but I fancied that I still detected a slight unwillingness in his movements. My request for the bill had been met with a smile and a polite shake of the head. Louis whispered in my ear that we were the guests of the management,–that it would not be correct to offer the money for our entertainment. So I was forced to content myself with tipping the head-waiter and the vestiaire, the chausseur who opened the door, and the tall commissionnaire who welcomed us upon the pavement and whistled for a petite voiture.

“Where to, messieurs?” the man asked, as the carriage drew up.

Even then Louis hesitated. He was sitting on the side of the carriage nearest to the pavement, and he rose to his feet as the question was asked. It seemed to me that he almost whispered the address into the ear of the coachman. At any rate, I heard nothing of it. The man nodded, and turned eastward.

“Bon soir, messieurs!” the commissionnaire called out, with his hat in his hand.

“Bon soir!” I answered, with my eyes fixed upon the flaring lights of the Boulevard, towards which we had turned.

III. DELORA

I found Louis, during that short drive, most unaccountably silent. Several times I made casual remarks. Once or twice I tried to learn from him what sort of a place this was to which we were bound. He answered me only in monosyllables. I was conscious all the time of a certain subtle but unmistakable change in his manner. Up to the moment of his suggesting this expedition he had remained the suave, perfectly mannered superior servant, accepted into equality for a time by one of his clients, and very careful not to presume in any way upon his position. It is not snobbish to say this, because it was the truth. Louis was chief maître d’hôtel at one of the best restaurants in London. I was an ex-officer in a cavalry regiment, brother of the Earl of Welmington, with a moderate income, and a more than moderate idea of how to spend it. Louis was servant and I was master. It had pleased me to make a companion of him for a short time, and his manner had been a perfect acknowledgment of our relative positions. And now it seemed to me that there was a change. Louis had become more like a man, less like a waiter. There was a strength in his face which I had not previously observed, a darkening anxiety which puzzled me. He treated my few remarks with scant courtesy. He was obviously thinking about something else. It seemed as though, for some inexplicable reason, he had already repented of his suggestion.

“Look here, Louis,” I said, “you seem a little bothered about taking me to this place. Perhaps they do not care about strangers there. I am not at all keen, really, and I am afraid I am not fit company for anybody. Better drop me here and go on by yourself. I can amuse myself all right at some of these little out-of-the-way places until I feel inclined to go home.”

Louis turned and looked at me. For a moment I thought that he was going to accept my offer. He opened his mouth but said nothing. He looked away into the darkness once more, and then back into my face. By this time I knew that he had made up his mind. He was more like himself again.

“Monsieur Rotherby,” he said, “if I have hesitated at all, it was for your sake. You are a gentleman of great position. Afterwards you might feel sorry to think that you had been in such a place, or in such company.”

I patted him on the shoulder reassuringly.

“My dear Louis,” said I, “you need have no such fears about me. I am a little of an adventurer, a little of a Bohemian. There is no one else who has a claim upon my life, and I do as I please. Can’t you tell me a little more about this mysterious café?”

“There is so little to tell,” Louis said. “Of one thing I can assure you,–you will be disappointed. There is no music, no dancing. The interest is only in the people who go there, and their lives. It may be,” he continued thoughtfully, “that you will not find them much different from all the others.”

“But there is a difference, Louis?” I asked.

“Wait,” he answered. “You shall see.”

The cab pulled up in front of a very ordinary-looking café in a side street leading from one of the boulevards. Louis dismissed the man and looked for a moment or two up and down the pavement. His caution appeared to be quite needless, for the thoroughfare was none too well lit, and it was almost empty. Then he entered the café, motioning me to follow him.

“Don’t look around too much,” he whispered. “There are many people here who do not care to be spied upon.”

My first glance into the place was disappointing. I was beginning to lose faith in Louis. After all, it seemed to me that the end of our adventure would be ordinary enough, that I should find myself in one of those places which the touting guides of the Boulevard speak of in bated breath, which one needs to be very young indeed to find interesting even for a moment. The ground floor of the café through which we passed was like a thousand others in different parts of Paris. The floor was sanded, the people were of the lower orders,–rough-looking men drinking beer or sipping cordials; women from whom one instinctively looked away, and whose shrill laughter was devoid of a single note of music. It was all very flat, very uninteresting. But Louis led the way through a swing door to a staircase, and then, pushing his way through some curtains, along a short passage to another door, against which he softly knocked with his knuckles. It was opened at once, and a commissionnaire stood gazing stolidly out at us, a commissionnaire in the usual sort of uniform, but one of the most powerful-looking men whom I had ever seen in my life.

“There are no tables, monsieur, in the restaurant,” he said at once. “There is no place at all.”

Louis looked at him steadily for a moment. It seemed to me that, although I was unable to discern anything of the sort, some sign must have passed between them. At any rate, without any protest or speech of any sort from Louis the commissionnaire saluted and stood back.

“But your friend, monsieur?” he asked.

“It will be arranged,” Louis answered, in a low tone. “We shall speak to Monsieur Carvin.”

We were in a dark sort of entresol, and at that moment a further door was opened, and one caught the gleam of lights and the babel of voices. A man came out of the room and walked rapidly toward us. He was of middle height, and dressed in ordinary morning clothes, wearing a black tie with a diamond pin. His lips were thick. He had a slight tawny moustache, and a cast in one eye. He held out both his hands to Louis.

“Dear Louis,” he exclaimed, “it is good to see you!”

Louis drew him to one side, and they talked for a few moments in a rapid undertone. More than once the manager of the restaurant, for such I imagined him to be, glanced towards me, and I was fairly certain that I formed the subject of their conversation. When it was finished Louis beckoned, and we all three turned towards the door together, Louis in the centre.

“This,” he said to me, “is Monsieur Carvin, the manager of the Café des Deux Epingles. He has been explaining to me how difficult it is to find even a corner in his restaurant, but there will be a small table for us.”

Monsieur Carvin bowed.

“For any friend of Louis,” he said, “one would do much. But indeed, monsieur, people seem to find my little restaurant interesting, and it is, alas, so very small.”

We entered the room almost as he spoke. It was larger than I had expected to find it, and the style of its decorations and general appearance were absolutely different from the café below. The coloring was a little sombre for a French restaurant, and the illuminations a little less vivid. The walls, however, were panelled with what seemed to be a sort of dark mahogany, and on the ceiling was painted a great allegorical picture, the nature of which I could not at first surmise. The guests, of whom the room was almost full, were all well-dressed and apparently of the smart world. The tourist element was lacking. There were a few men there in morning clothes, but these were dressed with the rigid exactness of the Frenchman, who often, from choice, affects this style of toilet. From the first I felt that the place possessed an atmosphere. I could not describe it, but, quite apart from Louis’ few words concerning it, I knew that it had a clientele of its own, and that within its four walls were gathered together people who were in some way different from the butterfly crowd who haunt the night cafés in Paris. Monsieur Carvin himself led us to a small table against the wall, and not far inside the room. The vestiaire relieved us of our coats and hats. A suave maître d’hôtel bent over us with suggestions for supper, and an attendant sommelier waited by his side. Monsieur Carvin waved them away.

“The gentlemen have probably supped,” he remarked. “A bottle of the Pommery, Gout Anglais, and some biscuits. Is that right, Louis?”

We both hastened to express our approval. Monsieur Carvin was called by some one at the other end of the room and hurried away. Louis turned to me. There was a curious expression in his eyes.

“You are disappointed?” he asked. “You see nothing here different? It is all the same to you.”

“Not in the least,” I answered. “For one thing, it seems strange to find a restaurant de luxe up here, when below there is only a café of the worst. Are they of the same management?”

“Up here,” he said, “come the masters, and down there the servants. Look around at these people, monsieur. Look around carefully. Tell me whether you do not see something different here from the other places.”

I followed Louis’ advice. I looked around at the people with an interest which grew rather than abated, and for which I could not at first account. Soon, however, I began to realize that although this was, at first appearance, merely a crowd of fashionably dressed men and women, yet they differed from the ordinary restaurant crowd in that there was something a little out of the common in the faces of nearly every one of them. The loiterers through life seemed absent. These people were relaxing freely enough,–laughing, talking, and making love,–but behind it all there seemed a note of seriousness, an intentness in their faces which seemed to speak of a career, of things to be done in the future, or something accomplished in the past. The woman who sat at the opposite table to me–tall, with yellow hair, and face as pale as alabaster–was a striking personality anywhere. Her blue eyes were deep-set, and she seemed to have made no effort to conceal the dark rings underneath, which only increased their luminosity. A magnificent string of turquoises hung from her bare neck, a curious star shone in her hair. Her dress was of the newest mode. Her voice, languid but elegant, had in it that hidden quality which makes it one of a woman’s most attractive gifts. By her side was a great black-moustached giant, a pale-faced man, with little puffs of flesh underneath his eyes, whose dress was a little too perfect and his jewelry a little too obvious.

“Tell me,” I asked, “who is that man?”

Louis leaned towards me, and his voice sunk to the merest whisper.

“That, monsieur,” said he, “is one of the most important persons in the room. He is the man whom they call the uncrowned king. He was a saddler once by profession. Look at him now.”

“How has he made his money?” I asked.

Louis smiled–a queer little contraction of his thin lips.

“It is not wise,” he said, “to ask that question of any whom you meet here. Henri Bartot was one of the wildest youths in Paris. It was he who started the first band of thieves, from which developed the present hoard of apaches.”

“And now?” I asked.

“He is their unrecognized, unspoken-of leader,” Louis whispered. “The man who offends him to-night would be lucky to find himself alive to-morrow.”

I looked across the room curiously. There was not a single redeeming feature in the man’s face except, perhaps, the suggestion of brute, passionate force which still lingered about his thick, straight lips and heavy jaw. The woman by his side seemed incomprehensible. I saw now that she had eyes of turquoise blue and a complexion almost waxenlike. She lifted her arms, and I saw that they, too, were covered with bracelets of light-blue stones. Louis, following my eyes, touched me on the arm.

“Don’t look at her,” he said warningly. “She belongs to him–Bartot. It is not safe to flirt with her even at this distance.”

I laughed softly and sipped my wine.

“Louis,” I said, “it is time you got back to London. You are living here in too imaginative an atmosphere.”

“I speak the truth, monsieur,” he answered grimly. “She, too,–she is not safe. She finds pleasure in making fools of men. The suffering which comes to them appeals to her vanity. There was a young Englishman once, he sent a note to her–not here, but at the Café de Paris–at luncheon time one morning. He was to have left Paris the next day. He did not leave. He has never been heard of since!”

There was no doubt that Louis himself, at any rate, believed what he was saying. I looked away from the young lady a little reluctantly. As though she understood Louis’ warning, her lips parted for a moment in a faint, contemptuous smile. She leaned over and touched the man Bartot on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear. When I next looked in their direction I found his eyes fixed upon mine in a steady, malignant stare.

“Monsieur will remember,” Louis whispered in my ear softly, “that I am responsible for his coming here.”

“Of course,” I answered reassuringly. “I have not the slightest wish to run up against any of these people. I will not look at them any more. She knew what she was doing, though, Louis, when she hung blue stones about her with eyes like that, eh?”

“She is beautiful,” Louis admitted. “There are very many who admire her. But after all, what is the use? One has little pleasure of the things which one may not touch.”

We were silent for several minutes. Suddenly my fingers gripped Louis’ arm. Had I been blind all this time that they had escaped my notice? Then I saw that they were sitting at an extra table which had been hastily arranged, and I knew that they could have only just arrived.

“Tell me, Louis,” I demanded eagerly, “who are those two at the small round table on the left,–the two who seem to have just come in,–a man and a girl?”

Louis turned his head, and I saw his lips come together–saw the quick change in his face from indifference to seriousness. For some reason or other my interest in these two seemed to be a matter of some import to him.

“Why does monsieur ask?” he said.

“The idlest curiosity,” I assured him. “I know nothing about them except that they are distinctive, and one cannot fail, of course, to admire the young lady.”

“You have seen them often?” Louis asked, in a low tone.

“I told you, Louis,” I answered, “that my mission in Paris is of the nature of a search. For ten days I have haunted all the places where one goes,–the Race Course, the Bois, the Armenonville and Pre Catelan, the Rue de la Paix, the theatres. I have seen them nearly every day. To-night they were at the Opera.”

“You know nothing of them beyond that?” Louis persisted.

“Nothing whatever,” I declared. “I am not a boulevarder, Louis,” I continued slowly, “and in England, you know, it is not the custom to stare at women as these Frenchmen seem to do with impunity. But I must confess that I have watched that girl.”

“You find her attractive,” murmured Louis.

“I find her delightful,” I assented, “only she seems scarcely old enough to be about in such places as these.”

“The man,” Louis said slowly, “is a Brazilian. His name is Delora.”

“Does he live in Paris?” I asked.

“By no means,” Louis answered. “He is a very rich coffee-planter, and has immense estates somewhere in his own country. He comes over here every year to sell his produce on the London market. I believe that he is on his way there now.”

“And the girl?” I asked.

“She is his niece,” Louis answered. “She has been brought up in France at a convent somewhere in the south, I believe. I think I heard that this time she was to return to Brazil with her uncle.”

“I wonder,” I asked, “if she is going to London with him?”

“Probably,” Louis answered, “and if monsieur continues to patronize me,” he continued, “he will certainly see more of them, for Monsieur Delora is a client who is always faithful to me.”

Notwithstanding its somewhat subdued air, there was all the time going on around us a cheerful murmur of conversation, the popping of corks, the laughter of women, the hurrying to and fro of waiters,–all the pleasant disturbance of an ordinary restaurant at the most festive hour of the night. But there came, just at this moment, a curious interruption, an interruption curious not only on its own account, but on account of the effect which it produced. From somewhere in the centre of the room there commenced ringing, softly at first, and afterwards with a greater volume, a gong, something like the siren of a motor-car, but much softer and more musical. Instantly a dead silence seemed to fall upon the place. Conversation was broken off, laughter was checked, even the waiters stood still in their places. The eyes of every one seemed turned towards the door. One or two of the men rose, and in the faces of these was manifest a sudden expression in which was present more or less of absolute terror. Bartot for a moment shrank back in his chair as though he had been struck, only to recover himself the next second; and the lady with the turquoises bent over and whispered in his ear. One person only left his place,–a young man who had been sitting at a table at the other end of the room with one of the gayest parties. At the very first note of alarm he had sprung to his feet. A few seconds later, with swift, silent movements and face as pale as a ghost, he had vanished into the little service room from which the waiters issued and returned. With his disappearance the curious spell which seemed to have fallen upon these other people passed away. The waiters resumed their tasks. The room was once more hilariously gay. Upon the threshold a newcomer was standing, a tall man in correct morning dress, with a short gray beard and a tiny red ribbon in his button-hole. He stood there smiling slightly–an unobtrusive entrance, such as might have befitted any habitue of the place. Yet all the time his eyes were travelling restlessly up and down the room. As he stood there, one could fancy there was not a face into which he did not look during those few minutes.

IV. DANGEROUS PLAY

I leaned towards Louis, but he anticipated my question. His hand had caught my wrist and was pinning it down to the table.

“Wait!” he muttered–“wait! You perceive that we are drinking wine of the vintage of ‘98. I will tell you of my trip to the vineyards. Do not look at that man as though his appearance was anything remarkable. You are not an habitue here, and he will take notice of you.”

As one who speaks upon the subject most interesting to him, Louis, with the gestures and swift, nervous diction of his race, talked to me of the vineyards and the cellars of the famous champagne house whose wine we were drinking. I did my best to listen intelligently, but every moment I found my eyes straying towards this new arrival, now deep in apparently pleasant conversation with Monsieur Carvin.

The newcomer had the air of one who has looked in to smile around at his acquaintances and pass on. He accepted a cigarette from Carvin, but he did not sit down, and I saw him smile a polite refusal as a small table was pointed out to him. He strolled a little into the place and he bowed pleasantly to several with whom he seemed to be acquainted, amongst whom was the man Bartot. He waved his hand to others further down the room. His circle of acquaintances, indeed, seemed unlimited. Then, with a long hand-shake and some parting jest, he took leave of Monsieur Carvin and disappeared. Somehow or other one seemed to feel the breath of relief which went shivering through the room as he departed. Louis answered then my unspoken question.

“That,” he said, “is a very great man. His name is Monsieur Myers.”

“The head of the police!” I exclaimed.

Louis nodded.

“The most famous,” he said, “whom France has ever possessed, Monsieur Myers is absolutely marvellous,” he declared. “The man has genius,–genius as well as executive ability. It is a terrible war that goes on between him and the haute école of crime in this country.”

“Tell me, Louis,” I asked, “is Monsieur Myers’ visit here to-night professional?”

“Monsieur has observation,” Louis answered. “Why not?”

“You mean,” I asked, “that there are criminals–people under suspicion–”

“I mean,” Louis interrupted, “that in this room, at the present moment, are some of the most famous criminals in the world.”

A question half framed died away upon my lips. Louis, however, divined it.

“You were about to ask,” he said, “how I obtained my entry here. Monsieur, one had better not ask. It is one thing to be a thief. It is quite another to see something of the wonderful life which those live who are at war with society.”

I looked around the room once more. Again I realized the difference between this gathering of well-dressed men and women and any similar gathering which I had seen in Paris. The faces of all somehow lacked that tiredness of expression which seems to be the heritage of those who drink the cup of pleasure without spice, simply because the hand of Fate presses it to their lips. These people had found something else. Were they not, after all, a little to be envied? They must know what it was to feel the throb of life, to test the true flavor of its luxuries when there was no certainty of the morrow. I felt the fascination, felt it almost in my blood, as I looked around.

“You could not specify, I suppose?” I said to Louis.

“How could monsieur ask it?” he replied, a little reproachfully. “You will be one of the only people who do not belong who have been admitted here, and you will notice,” he continued, “that I have asked for no pledge–I rely simply upon the honor of monsieur.”

I nodded.

“There is crime and crime, Louis,” said I. “I have never been able to believe myself that it is the same thing to rob the widow and the millionaire. I know that I must not ask you any questions,” I continued, “but the girl with Delora,–the man whom you call Delora,–she, at least, is innocent of any knowledge of these things?”

Louis smiled.

“Monsieur is susceptible,” he remarked. “I cannot answer that question. Mademoiselle is a stranger. She is but a child.”

“And Monsieur Delora himself?” I asked. “He comes here when he chooses? He is not merely a sightseer?”

“No,” Louis repeated, “he is not merely a sightseer!”

“A privileged person,” I remarked.

“He is a wonderful man,” Louis answered calmly. “He has travelled all over the world. He knows a little of every capital, of every side of life,–perhaps,” he added, “of the underneath side.”

“His niece is very beautiful,” I remarked, looking at her thoughtfully. “It seems almost a shame, does it not, to bring her into such a place as this?”

Louis smiled.

“If she were going to stay in Paris–yes!” he said. “If she is really going to Brazil, it matters little what she does. A Parisian, of course, would never bring his womankind here.”

“She is very beautiful,” I remarked. “Yes, I agree with you, Louis. It is no place for girls of her age.”

Louis smiled.

“Monsieur may make her acquaintance some day,” he remarked. “Monsieur Delora is on his way to England.”

“She is a safer person to admire,” I remarked, “than the lady opposite?”