ledge, and I looked. To my astonishment, I had a
full view of a large apartment, my head being even with the floor of
that apartment. Lying on a couch was a woman--the woman who had
accosted me on Dover Pier--Carlotta Deschamps, in fact. By her side,
facing her in a chair, was Rosetta Rosa. I could hear nothing, but by
the movement of their lips I knew that these two were talking. Rosa's
face was full of pity; as for Deschamps, her coarse features were
inscrutable. She had a certain pallor, but it was impossible to judge
whether she was ill or well.

I had scarcely begun to observe the two women when I caught the sound
of footsteps on the stone stair. The footsteps approached; they
entered the room where I was. I made no sound. Without any hesitation
the footsteps arrived at my corner, and a pair of hands touched my
legs. Then I knew it was time to act. Jumping down from the ledge, I
clasped the intruder by the head, and we rolled over together,
struggling. But he was a short man, apparently stiff in the limbs, and
in ten seconds or thereabouts I had him flat on his back, and my hand
at his throat.

"Don't move," I advised him.

In that faint light I could not see him, so I struck a match, and held
it over the man's face. We gazed at each other, breathing heavily.

"Good God!" the man exclaimed.

It was Sir Cyril Smart.

CHAPTER XV

THE SHEATH OF THE DAGGER

That was one of those supremely trying moments which occur, I suppose,
once or twice in the lives of most men, when events demand to be fully
explained while time will on no account permit of the explanation. I
felt that I must know at once the reason and purpose of Sir Cyril's
presence with me in the underground chamber, and that I could do
nothing further until I had such knowledge. And yet I also felt that
explanations must inevitably wait until the scene enacting above us
was over. I stood for a second silent, irresolute. The match went out.

"Are you here to protect her?" whispered Sir Cyril.

"Yes, if she is in danger. I will tell you afterwards about things.
And you?"

"I was passing through Paris, and I heard that Deschamps was
threatening Rosa. Everyone is talking of it, and I heard of the
scene at the rehearsal, and I began to guess.... I know Deschamps
well. I was afraid for Rosa. Then this morning I met Yvette, Rosa's
maid--she's an old acquaintance of mine--and she told me everything. I
have many friends in Paris, and I learnt to-