arm.

"It is he--Bartot!" she cried. "He is here at the private
entrance. Some one has told him that I am here. Mon Dieu! It is he
outside now!"

It was bad acting, and I laughed.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "if Monsieur Bartot is your lover, be thankful
that you have nothing with which to reproach yourself."

I rang the bell. She looked at me for a moment with eyes filled with a
genuine fear. Obviously she did not understand my attitude. From my
trousers pocket I drew a little revolver, whose settings and mechanism
I carefully examined. There was a loud knock at the door and the sound
of voices outside. Monsieur Bartot entered, in a frock-coat too small
for him and a tie too large. When he saw us he fell back with a
theatrical start.

"Susette!" he exclaimed. "Susette! And you, sir!" he added, turning
to me.

He slammed the door and stood with his back to it.

"What the devil is the meaning of this?" he asked, looking from one to
the other of us.

I shrugged my shoulders.

"You had better ask mademoiselle," I answered.