"And I with you?" she implored.
He shook his head.
"Wait here."
Once more he returned to Estermen's apartments. Estermen was still there, smoking furiously. The room was blue with tobacco smoke. Falkenberg regarded him with distaste.
"Make yourself presentable, man," he ordered. "We sup in the Montmartre and we leave in a few minutes."
"What, I?" Estermen exclaimed, springing up.
"You and I and mademoiselle," Falkenberg told him. "I have made plans.
You may perhaps escape—who can tell?"
Estermen, with a little sob of relief, hurried into his sleeping apartment. Soon they were all three in the big car, gliding through the busy streets. It was getting towards midnight and they took their place among the crowd of vehicles climbing the hill, only wherever the street was broad enough they passed always ahead. At the Rat Mort they came to a stand-still. Falkenberg led the way up the narrow stairs, greeted Albert with both hands, nodded amiably to the chef d'orchestre, the flower girl and the head waiter, who crowded around him.
"For as many as choose to come!" he declared. "The round table! The best supper in France! It is a gala night, Albert. Serve us of your best. Mademoiselle will sing. We are here to taste the joys of life."
Albert led the way.