“Can you tell me where to find Louis?” I asked one of the waiters.

The man glanced at the clock and shrugged his shoulders.

“Perhaps in his office,” he said, “but Monsieur Louis often goes out for an hour about this time.”

“Where is his office?” I asked.

The man led me into the service room and turned to the left.  He knocked at a closed door, and I heard a sleepy voice say—­

“Come in!”

I entered, and found Louis in a tiny little sitting-room, curled up on a sofa.  In his hand was a pocket-book and a pencil.  He appeared to have been making memoranda.  He sprang to his feet as I entered.

“Monsieur!” he exclaimed, putting away the pocket-book and rising to his feet.

“Sorry to disturb you, Louis,” I said.  “Miss Delora is in the little smoking-room, and Bartot is there,—­just arrived, I suppose, from Paris.  He is terrifying her.  She sent me to fetch you.”

I saw Louis’ lips curl into something which I can only describe as a snarl.  After that moment I never even partially trusted him again.  He looked like a wild animal, one of those who creep through the hidden places and love to spring upon their prey unseen!

“So!” he muttered.  “I come, monsieur.  I come.”

He followed me out and into the restaurant.  As he passed along his features composed themselves.  He bent courteously toward me.  He even opened the door of the little smoking-room and insisted that I should precede him.  I stood on one side then while he went up to the pair.  I heard Felicia give a little murmur of relief.  Bartot turned round fiercely.  The two faced one another, and it seemed to me that unutterable things passed between them.  They were like wild animals, indeed,—­Louis silent, composed, serene, yet with a jaguar-like glare in his eyes, his body poised, as though to spring or defend himself, as circumstances might dictate.  Bartot, who had risen to his feet, was like a clumsy but powerful beast, showing his fierce primitivism through the disguise of clothes and his falsely human form.  To me those few seconds were absolutely thrilling!  There was another man in the room, who continued writing as though nothing were happening.  A couple of strangers passed through on their way to the bar, and seemed to see nothing except the meeting of Louis—­the maitre d’hotel—­with a possible client.  Felicia had let fall her veil, so that her terror was no longer written in her face.  She had separated herself now from Bartot, and with an involuntary movement I came over to her side.  Then the tension was suddenly broken.  It was Louis who showed his teeth, but it was with the razor-edge of civility.

“Monsieur Bartot is very welcome,” he said, speaking in French.  “Monsieur Bartot has promised so often to make this visit, and has always disappointed us.”

Bartot was no match for this sort of thing.  His few muttered words at first were scarcely coherent.  Louis bent towards him, always with the same attitude of polite attention.