"I am not a child now, you know," she continued. "I am quite old enough to take care of myself. You must believe that, Andrew. You must go away, and not worry about me. You will do this, please, because I ask you!"

"If I must," he said reluctantly. "I will go away, but not to worry about you--that is impossible. You seem to be surrounded by all the mediaeval terrors which confronted the emanc.i.p.ation of princesses in our fairy books. Only a short time ago Duncombe implored me to follow his example, and leave you and Paris alone. The detective whom I brought with me has been shadowed ever since we left Paris. Last night he left me for a few hours, and this morning comes a note from the hospital. He is lying there with the back of his head beaten in--garotters, of course, the police say, looking for plunder. How can you ask me to be easy in my mind about you?"

She smiled rea.s.suringly.

"No harm will come to me here, I can promise you," she said. "It is you who run the most risk if you only knew it. Sir George Duncombe gave you the best advice when he tried to get you to return to England."

"I cannot leave Lloyd now until he has recovered," Andrew answered.

"Tell me, Phyllis, has Duncombe found you out? Has he been here?"

"Yes," she answered. "I sent him away--as I am sending you."

"Has he ever told you," Andrew asked, "why he was willing in the first instance to come to Paris in search of you?"

"No," she answered. "Wasn't it because he was your friend?"

He shook his head.

"It is his affair, not mine," he said with a sigh. "Ask him some day."

"You won't tell me, Andrew?"

"No! I will go now! You know where to send for me if you should need help. I can find my way down, thank you. I have a guide from the hotel outside."

The Marquise swept into the room as he pa.s.sed out, an impression of ermine and laces and perfume.

"Another of your English lovers, _ma belle_?" she asked.

"Scarcely that," Phyllis answered. "He is a very old friend, and he was rather hard to get rid of."

"I think," the Marquise said, "you would get rid of all very willingly for the sake of one, eh?"

The Marquise stared insolently into the girl's face. Phyllis only laughed.

"One is usually considered the ideal number--in our country," she remarked demurely.

"But the one?" the Marquise continued. "He would not be one of these cold, heavy countrymen of yours, no? You have learnt better perhaps over here?"

It was a cross-examination, but Phyllis could not imagine its drift.

"I have not had very much opportunity over here, have I, to amend my ideals?" she asked. "I think the only two Frenchmen I have met are the Marquis and that languid young man with the green tie, the Vicomte de Bergillac, wasn't it?"

The Marquise watched her charge closely.

"Well," she said, "he is _comme il faut_, is he not? You find him more elegant, more chic than your Englishmen, eh?"

Phyllis shook her head regretfully.

"To me," she admitted, "he seemed like an exceedingly precocious spoilt child!"

"He is twenty-three," the Marquise declared.

Phyllis laughed softly.

"Well," she said, "I do not think that I shall amend my ideals for the sake of the Vicomte de Bergillac!"

The Marquise looked at her doubtfully.

"Tell me, child," she said, "you mean, then, that of the two--your English Sir George Duncombe and Henri--you would prefer Sir George?"

Phyllis looked at her with twinkling eyes.

"You would really like to know?" she asked.

"Yes!"

"Sir George Duncombe--infinitely!"

The Marquise seemed to have recovered her good spirits.

"Come, little one," she said, "you lose color in the house. I will take you for a drive!"

Andrew, conscious that he was being followed, sat down outside a cafe on his way homewards, and bade his guide leave him for a little time.

Instantly there was the soft rustle of feminine skirts by his side, and a woman seated herself on the next chair.

"Monsieur has not been up to the Cafe Montmartre lately!"

Pelham turned his head. It was the young lady from Vienna.

"No!" he answered. "I have not been there since I had the pleasure of seeing Mademoiselle!"

"Monsieur has discovered all that he wanted to know?"

He nodded a little wearily.

"Yes, I think so!"

She drew her chair quite close to his. The sable of her turban hat almost brushed his cheek, and the perfume of the violets at her bosom was strong in his nostrils.

"Monsieur has seen the young lady?"

"I have seen her," he answered.

"Monsieur is indebted to me," she said softly, "for some information.

Let me ask him one question. Is it true, this story in the newspapers, of the finding of this young man's body? Is Monsieur Guy Poynton really dead?"

"I know no more than we all read in the newspapers," he answered.