"Your standard of manners is, I am afraid, a peculiar one," she said.

"In Paris one is used always to be stared at. Englishmen, I was told, behaved better."

She took up a magazine and turned away with a shrug of the shoulders.

I leaned a little further forward in my place, and lowered my voice so as not to disturb the sleeping man.

"You are really unjust to me," I said. "I will plead guilty to noticing you at the Opera House, but I did so as I would have done any well-dressed young woman who formed a part of the show there. So far as regards my visit to the Cafe des Deux Epingles, I went at the suggestion of Louis, whom I met by accident, and who is the _maitre d'hotel_ at my favorite restaurant. I had no idea that you were going to be there. On the contrary, I distinctly heard your companion tell your chauffeur to drive to the Ritz. I came on this train by accident, and although it is true that I spoke to you as I might have done to any other travelling companion, I deny that there was anything in the least impertinent either in what I said or how I said it. So far as regards your coming into this carriage," I added, "I feed the guard to keep it to myself, and although I will not say that your presence is unwelcome, it is certainly unsought for."

She was silent for a moment, watching me all the time intently. My words seemed to have given her food for thought.

"Listen," she said, leaning forward. "Do you mean to say that that was your first visit to the Cafe des Deux Epingles?"

"Absolutely my first visit," I answered. "I met Louis by accident that night. He knew that I was bored, and he took me there."

"You met him at the Opera and you asked him who we were," she remarked.

"That is quite true," I admitted, "but I scarcely see that there was anything impertinent in that. Afterwards we spoke together for a little time. I told him that I was alone in Paris and bored. It was because I was alone that we went out together."

Her forehead was wrinkled with perplexity. Her eyes seemed always to be seeking mine, as though anxious to learn whether I were indeed speaking the truth.

"I do not understand at all," she said. "You mean to tell me, then, that you know nothing of Louis except as a _maitre d'hotel_, that you were a chance visitor to Paris this week?"

"Absolutely," I answered.

Suddenly a thought seemed to occur to her. She drew away from me. In her eyes I seemed to see reflected the tragedy of those few moments in the Cafe des Deux Epingles.

"How can I believe you?" she exclaimed. "Remember that I saw you strike that man! It was horrible! I have never seen anything like it!

You were like a wild animal! They tell me that he was very badly hurt. Is it true?"

"I believe so," I answered. "I am afraid that I hope so."

"And you," she continued, "go free! You have not even the air of one who flies for his life. Yet you tell me that you are not one of those--those--"

"Those what?" I asked eagerly.

"Those who frequent the Cafe des Deux Epingles," she said slowly,--"those who take advantage of the peculiar protection which some of those behind the scenes there are able to extend to their friends."

I shook my head.

"I know nothing of the place beyond that brief visit," I answered. "I know nothing of Louis except as a _maitre d'hotel_ in my favorite restaurant. I know nothing of the people who frequent the Cafe des Deux Epingles except those I saw there that night. You," I added, "were one of them. I can a.s.sure you that when I went with Louis to that place I had not the slightest idea that I should meet the person whom I did meet."

"What is your name?" she asked abruptly.

I handed her my card. She read it with a perplexed face. The man opposite to her moved uneasily in his sleep. She crumpled the card up in her hands and remained for a few moments apparently deep in thought.

"You are an Englishman?" she asked, after a short pause.

"Decidedly!" I answered.

"I have not known many Englishmen," she said slowly. "I have lived in the country, near Bordeaux, and in Paris, most of my days. It is very certain, though, that I have never seen an Englishman like you. I was looking into your eyes when that man came into the room. I saw you rise to strike him."

She shuddered. I leaned across towards her.

"Listen," I said, "I do not wish you to think me worse than I am. You sympathize with that man whom I struck down. You look upon me as a sort of would-be a.s.sa.s.sin. You need not. I tell you, upon my honor, that if ever a man in this world deserved death, he deserved it."

"From you?" she asked.

"From me!" I answered firmly. "It was not, perhaps, a personal matter, but I have a brother,--listen, mademoiselle!" I continued. "He is a cripple. He was thrown from his horse--he was master of hounds in those days--and he has never been able to walk since. He was married to a woman whom he loved, a poor girl whom he had made wealthy, and to whom he had given a great position. She loved him, and she was content, after his accident, to give her life to him. Then that man came, the man whom you saw me punish. I tell you that this was no chance affair," I went on. "He set himself deliberately to win her heart. How far he succeeded I do not know. I can only tell you that she left my brother's home with him. The man was his guest at the time,--was his guest from the beginning of the affair."

The girl's eyes blazed. Even in that dim light I could see the dark blue fire in them.

"You did well!" she said. "For that I have no more to say. One who wrongs the helpless should be punished. But I do not understand this," she added. "I do not understand why those people at the Cafe des Deux Epingles should shield you when you are not one of them,--when you have no knowledge of any of them save the very slightest. They are not philanthropists, those people. Some day or other you will have to pay the price!"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"I have never refused to pay my just debts," I said. "If any one of them comes to me with a definite request which I can grant, you may be very sure that I shall grant it."

"You are not already their servant, then?" she asked. "You are sure, quite sure of that?"

"In what way?" I asked.

"You look honest," she said. "Perhaps you are. Perhaps I have doubted you without a cause. But I will ask you this question. Has it been suggested to you by any of them that you should watch us--my uncle and me?"

"On my honor, no!" I answered earnestly.

She was evidently puzzled. Little by little the animosity seemed to have died away from her face. She looked at the sleeping man thoughtfully, and then once more at me.

"Tell me," she said,--"do not think, please, that I am inquisitive, but I should like to believe that you are not one of those whom we need fear,--is Louis indeed an ordinary acquaintance of yours?"

"He is scarcely that," I answered. "He is simply the _maitre d'hotel_ at a restaurant I frequent. I had never in my life seen him before, except in his restaurant. When he spoke to me at the Opera I did not for some time recognize him."

She appeared to be convinced, but still a little bewildered. She was silent.

"Don't you think," I said, after a short pause, "that it is almost my turn now to ask a few questions?"

She seemed surprised.

"Why not?" she asked.

"Tell me, you are not English," I said, "and you are not French. Yet you speak English so well."

She smiled.

"My father was a Frenchman and my mother a Spaniard," she answered. "I was born in South America, but I came to Europe when very young, and have lived in France always. My people"--she looked towards the sleeping man as though to include him--"are all coffee planters."

"You are going to stay long in London?" I asked.

"My uncle sells his year's crops there," she answered. "When he has finished his business we move on."