"My name is Carl Foster," I said. "It will be better for you not to talk."
He made another gesture of protest with that wonderful left hand of his.
"Monsieur Foster, I must talk to Mademoiselle Rosa."
"Impossible," I replied. "It really is essential that you should keep quiet."
"Kind friend, grant me this wish. When I have seen her I shall be better. It will do me much good."
There was such a desire in his eyes, such a persuasive plaintiveness in his voice, that, against my judgment, I yielded.
"Very well," I said. "But I am afraid I can only let you see her for five minutes."
The hand waved compliance, and I told the valet to go and inquire for Rosa.
"She is here, sir," said the valet on opening the door. I jumped up. There she was, standing on the door-mat in the narrow passage! Yet I had been out of the room twice, once to speak to Sir Cyril Smart, and once to answer an inquiry from my cousin Sullivan, and I had not seen her.