I leaped to my feet.
“Monsieur!” I thundered.
Lola gave a cry and rushed forward. I pushed her aside, and glared at him. I was in a furious rage. We glared at each other eye to eye. I pointed to the door.
“Monsieur, sortez!”
I went to it and flung it wide. Anastasius Papadopoulos trotted into the room.
His entrance was so queer, so unexpected, so anti-climatic, that for the moment the three of us were thrown off our emotional balance.
“I have heard all, I have heard all,” shrieked the little man. “I know you for what you are. I am the champion of the carissima signora and the protector of the English statesman. You are a traitor and murderer—”
Vauvenarde lifted his hand in a threatening gesture.
“Hold your tongue, you little abortion!” he shouted.
But Anastasius went on screaming and flourishing his bundle of papers.