"Tell me this, at any rate, Louis," I asked. "What is it that you hope for from this evening? You believe that some one will break in with the idea of robbing or else murdering Mr. Delora. They will find me there instead. What is it you hope,—that they will kill me, or that I shall kill them, or what?"
"That is a very reasonable question," Louis admitted. "I will answer it. In the first place, I would have them know that they have not all the wits on their side, and if they plot, we, too, can counterplot. In the second place, I wish you to see the man or the men face to face who make this attempt, and be prepared, if necessary, to recognize them hereafter. And in the third place, there is one man to whom, if he should himself make the attempt, I should be very glad indeed if harm came of it."
"Thank you, Louis," I said, "I am not proposing to do murder if I can help it."
"One must defend one's self," Louis said.
"Naturally," I answered, "up to a certain point. You have nothing more to tell me, then?"
"Nothing, sir," Louis answered calmly. "I wish you once more bonne fortune!"
I nodded, and left the café. Of the hall-porter I made an inquiry as to the man who had had a fit in the café earlier in the evening.
"The doctor has been to see him twice, sir," the man told me. "It was a sort of apoplectic stroke, brought on by something which he had eaten."
"Will he recover?" I asked.
"The doctor says it is serious," the man answered, "but that with careful nursing he will pull round. We have just sent a telegram to a lady in Paris to come over."