"But what should I know?" he asked. "Mr. Delora, he has come here last year and the year before. He has stayed for a month or so. He understands what he eats. That is all. Mademoiselle comes for the first time. I know her not at all."
"What do you think of his disappearance, Louis?" I asked.
"What should I think of it, monsieur? I know nothing."
"Mr. Delora, I am told," I continued, "is a coffee planter in South America."
"I, too," Louis admitted, "have heard so much."
"How came he to have the entrée to the Café des Deux Épingles?" I asked.
Louis smiled.
"I myself," he remarked, "am but a rare visitor there. How should I tell?"
"Louis," said I, "why not be honest with me? I am certainly not a person to be afraid of. I am very largely in your hands over the Tapilow affair, and, as you know, I have seen too much of the world to consider trifles. I do not believe that Mr. Delora came to London to sell his crop of coffee. I do not believe that you are ignorant of his affairs. I do not believe that his disappearance is so much a mystery to you as it is to the rest of us—say to me and to mademoiselle his niece."
Louis' face was like the face of a sphinx. He made no protestations. He denied nothing. He waited simply to see where I was leading him.