"She is, I believe, an acquaintance of yours. As for me—"
"My name is Bartot, sir," he cried fiercely.
"An excellent name," I answered, "but unknown to me. I do not yet understand by what right you intrude into a private room here."
He laughed hardly.
"'Intrude'!" he cried. "One does not call it that. 'Intrude,' when I find you two together, eh?"
I turned to the girl, who, with her handkerchief dabbed to her eyes, was still affecting a perfect frenzy of fear.
"Has this person any claims upon you?" I asked. "He seems to me to be an exceedingly disagreeable fellow."
Bartot's face grew purple. His cheeks seemed to distend and his eyes grow smaller. It was no longer necessary for him to play a part. He was becoming angry indeed.
"Monsieur," he said, "I remember you now. It was you who tried to flirt with this lady last night in the Café des Deux Épingles. You have not even the excuse of ignorance. All the world knows that I have claims upon this lady."
I bowed.