Andrew, conscious that he was being followed, sat down outside a café on his way homewards, and bade his guide leave him for a little time. Instantly there was the soft rustle of feminine skirts by his side, and a woman seated herself on the next chair.
"Monsieur has not been up to the Café Montmartre lately!"
Pelham turned his head. It was the young lady from Vienna.
"No!" he answered. "I have not been there since I had the pleasure of seeing Mademoiselle!"
"Monsieur has discovered all that he wanted to know?"
She drew her chair quite close to his. The sable of her turban hat almost brushed his cheek, and the perfume of the violets at her bosom was strong in his nostrils.
"Monsieur is indebted to me," she said softly, "for some information. Let me ask him one question. Is it true, this story in the newspapers, of the finding of this young man's body? Is Monsieur Guy Poynton really dead?"
"I know no more than we all read in the newspapers," he answered.
"His sister spoke of him as dead?" she asked.
"I cannot discuss this matter with you, Mademoiselle," he answered.
"Monsieur is ungrateful," she declared with a little grimace. "It is only that which I desire to know. He was such a _beau garçon_, that young Englishman. You will tell me that?" she whispered.
"Mademoiselle will excuse me," he said. "I am going to take a carriage to my hotel!"
"It is on the way to leave me at my rooms, if you will be so kind," she suggested, laying her hand upon his arm.
"Mademoiselle will excuse me," he answered, turning away. "Good afternoon."
Mademoiselle also took a carriage, and drove to a large house at the top of the Champs Élysées. She was at once admitted, and passed with the air of one familiar with the place into a small room at the back of the house, where a man was sitting at a table writing. He looked up as she entered.
"I have been following the Englishman, Pelham, all day," she said in German. "He has seen Miss Poynton. I have talked with him since at a café, but he would tell me nothing. He has evidently been warned."
The man grumbled as he resumed his writing.
"That fact alone should be enough for us," he remarked. "If there is anything to conceal we can guess what it is. These amateurs who are in league with the secret service are the devil! I would as soon resign. What with them and the regular secret service, Paris is an impossible city for us. Where we would watch we are watched ourselves. The streets and cafés bristle with spies! I do not wonder that you find success so difficult, Mademoiselle!"