"Does he live in Paris?" I asked.

"By no means," Louis answered. "He is a very rich coffee-planter, and
has immense estates somewhere in his own country. He comes over here
every year to sell his produce on the London market. I believe that he
is on his way there now."

"And the girl?" I asked.

"She is his niece," Louis answered. "She has been brought up in France
at a convent somewhere in the south, I believe. I think I heard that
this time she was to return to Brazil with her uncle."

"I wonder," I asked, "if she is going to London with him?"

"Probably," Louis answered, "and if monsieur continues to patronize
me," he continued, "he will certainly see more of them, for Monsieur
Delora is a client who is always faithful to me."

Notwithstanding its somewhat subdued air, there was all the time going
on around us a cheerful murmur of conversation, the popping of corks,
the laughter of women, the hurrying to and fro of waiters,--all the
pleasant disturbance of an ordinary restaurant at the most festive
hour of the night. But there came, just at this moment, a curious
interruption, an interruption curious not only on its own account, but
on account of the effect which it produced. From somewhere in the
centre of the room there commenced ringing, softly at first, and
afterwards with a greater volume, a gong, something like the siren of
a motor-car, but much softer and more musical. Instantly a dead silence
seemed to fall upon the place. Conversation was broken off, laughter