"He is their unrecognized, unspoken-of leader," Louis whispered. "The
man who offends him to-night would be lucky to find himself alive
to-morrow."

I looked across the room curiously. There was not a single redeeming
feature in the man's face except, perhaps, the suggestion of brute,
passionate force which still lingered about his thick, straight lips
and heavy jaw. The woman by his side seemed incomprehensible. I saw
now that she had eyes of turquoise blue and a complexion almost
waxenlike. She lifted her arms, and I saw that they, too, were covered
with bracelets of light-blue stones. Louis, following my eyes,
touched me on the arm.

"Don't look at her," he said warningly. "She belongs to
him--Bartot. It is not safe to flirt with her even at this distance."

I laughed softly and sipped my wine.

"Louis," I said, "it is time you got back to London. You are living
here in too imaginative an atmosphere."

"I speak the truth, monsieur," he answered grimly. "She, too,--she is
not safe. She finds pleasure in making fools of men. The suffering
which comes to them appeals to her vanity. There was a young
Englishman once, he sent a note to her--not here, but at the Cafe de
Paris--at luncheon time one morning. He was to have left Paris the
next day. He did not leave. He has never been heard of since!"

There was no doubt that Louis himself, at any rate, believed what he
was saying. I looked away from the young lady a little reluctantly. As