She laid her fingers upon my lips.

"Monsieur does not know the elderly gentleman and the very beautiful
girl who sat opposite him last night?" she asked,--"Monsieur Delora
and his niece?"

Somehow I felt convinced, the moment that the question had left her
lips, that her whole interest in me was centred upon my reply. She
concealed her impatience very well, but I realized that, for some
reason or other, I was sitting there by her side solely that I might
answer that question.

"I heard their names last night for the first time," I declared. "It
was Louis who told me about them."

She looked at me for several moments as though anxious to be sure that
I had spoken the truth.

"Mademoiselle!" I said reproachfully. "Let us leave these topics. I am
not interested in the Deloras, or Louis, or Monsieur Bartot. Last
night is finished, and to-morrow I leave. Let us talk for a few
moments of ourselves."

She held up her finger suddenly.

"Listen!" she exclaimed, in a voice of terror.

Footsteps had halted outside the door. She ran to the window and
looked down. In the street below was standing an automobile with
yellow wheels. I was looking over her shoulder, and she clutched my