"At our last most agreeable tête-à-tête, you were pleased to feel interested in my somewhat sluggish history. Would you pardon a few inquiries concerning yours?"
"M. Dupleisis, I am at your service."
"Two months since, you resided in the Rue de Luxembourg, Paris."
"This is an assertion. I expected an inquiry."
Dupleisis took from a pocket-book a half-sheet of thin, closely-written letter-paper, and spread it out on the table before him.
"It was about two months ago that this document was blown from your window. Am I right, Mademoiselle Milan?"
"It was blown from my writing-desk into the street."
"I knew I was right; for 'twas I that picked it up. It is a letter, written in Rio de Janeiro, and contains the details of a plot to rob one of the wealthiest diamond-dealers in this city. You may think my interest singular, mademoiselle; but the merchant deals with every large jewelry-house in Paris. Their loss by a felony of this magnitude would be immense."
Mademoiselle Milan listened with an air of indifference that was absolutely freezing.
"You may think it singular, also, that when, shortly afterward, you started for Bordeaux, I went by the same train; and that when you concluded to prolong your journey to Brazil by the French packet, via Lisbon, it was I who assisted with your luggage."