face as pale as alabaster--was a striking personality anywhere. Her
blue eyes were deep-set, and she seemed to have made no effort to
conceal the dark rings underneath, which only increased their
luminosity. A magnificent string of turquoises hung from her bare
neck, a curious star shone in her hair. Her dress was of the newest
mode. Her voice, languid but elegant, had in it that hidden quality
which makes it one of a woman's most attractive gifts. By her side was
a great black-moustached giant, a pale-faced man, with little puffs of
flesh underneath his eyes, whose dress was a little too perfect and
his jewelry a little too obvious.

"Tell me," I asked, "who is that man?"

Louis leaned towards me, and his voice sunk to the merest whisper.

"That, monsieur," said he, "is one of the most important persons in
the room. He is the man whom they call the uncrowned king. He was a
saddler once by profession. Look at him now."

"How has he made his money?" I asked.

Louis smiled--a queer little contraction of his thin lips.

"It is not wise," he said, "to ask that question of any whom you meet
here. Henri Bartot was one of the wildest youths in Paris. It was he
who started the first band of thieves, from which developed the
present hoard of _apaches_."

"And now?" I asked.