"I have been here before, to one of Deschamps' celebrated suppers. She showed me all over it then. It is one of the strangest houses round about Paris—and that's saying something. The inside was rebuilt by a Russian count who wanted to do the Louis Quinze revelry business over again. He died, and Deschamps bought the place. She often stays here quite alone."
I was putting all the questions. Sir Cyril seemed not to be very curious concerning the origin of my presence.
"What is Rosa to you?" I queried with emphasis.
"What is she to you?" he returned quickly.
"To me she is everything," I said.
"And to me, my young friend!"
I could not, of course, see Sir Cyril's face, but the tone of his reply impressed and silenced me. I was mystified—and yet I felt glad that he was there. Both of us forgot to be surprised at the peculiarity of the scene. It appeared quite natural that he should have supervened so dramatically at precisely the correct moment, and I asked him for no more information. He evidently did know the place, for he crept immediately to the ledge, and looked into the room above. I followed, and stood by his side. The two women were still talking.
"Can't we get into the room, or do something?" I murmured.
"Not yet. How do we know that Deschamps means harm? Let us wait. Have you a weapon?"