"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," I answered gravely, "I cannot discuss with you the
cause of the quarrel between that man and myself. Forgive me if I
remind you that it is a very painful subject. Forgive me if I remind
you, too," I added, taking her other hand in mine for a moment, "that
when I saw you scribble those few lines and send them across to me,
and when I read what you said and came here, it was not to answer
questions about any other person."

She raised her eyes to mine. They were curiously and wonderfully
blue. Then she shook her head and withdrew her hands, sighing.

"But, monsieur," she said, "since then many things have happened. You
must not show yourself about in Paris. It is better for you to go back
to England."

"I am quite safe here," I declared.