Instantly there was the soft rustle of feminine skirts by his side, and
a woman seated herself on the next chair.
"Monsieur has not been up to the Cafe Montmartre lately!"
Pelham turned his head. It was the young lady from Vienna.
"No!" he answered. "I have not been there since I had the pleasure of
seeing Mademoiselle!"
"Monsieur has discovered all that he wanted to know?"
He nodded a little wearily.
"Yes, I think so!"
She drew her chair quite close to his. The sable of her turban hat
almost brushed his cheek, and the perfume of the violets at her bosom
was strong in his nostrils.
"Monsieur has seen the young lady?"
"I have seen her," he answered.
"Monsieur is indebted to me," she said softly, "for some information.
Let me ask him one question. Is it true, this story in the newspapers,
of the finding of this young man's body? Is Monsieur Guy Poynton really
dead?"
"I know no more than we all read in the newspapers," he answered.
"His sister spoke of him as dead?" she asked.
"I cannot discuss this matter with you, Mademoiselle," he answered.
"Monsieur is ungrateful," she declared with a little grimace.
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