"I'm afraid Liane didn't guess, I suspect somebody told her we had stopped here to dine—"
The teasing half-smile with which Eve had been regarding her lover was erased. "You think we were followed—!"
"How else could they have known?"
"'They'?"
"Who informed Liane."
"But why should she have harked back to 'Paul Martin'?"
"I fancy her reason for that is implicit in Liane's message, a brief one—delivered, if it matters, by a stranger's tongue—'prenez garde'."
Eve nodded thoughtful confirmation of a private conjecture. "You are in some danger?" Not at all deceived by the shrug that sought to depreciate the weight of that term, she glanced quickly to and from the little party that was, just then, noisily making merry at its table across the room. In response, another movement of Lanyard's shoulders disclaimed intelligence: "Perhaps . . . Who knows?"
"You must tell me everything . . ."
"I know; but it's a fairish yarn, and the car ought to be here any minute—I'll hardly have time before we leave. So let me first of all throw myself upon your mercy, Eve, beg you to trust me."