night that Deschamps had
sent for Rosa. So I have come up to interfere. They are up-stairs, are
they not? Let us watch."

"You know the house, then?"

"I have been here before, to one of Deschamps' celebrated suppers. She
showed me all over it then. It is one of the strangest houses round
about Paris--and that's saying something. The inside was rebuilt by a
Russian count who wanted to do the Louis Quinze revelry business over
again. He died, and Deschamps bought the place. She often stays here
quite alone."

I was putting all the questions. Sir Cyril seemed not to be very
curious concerning the origin of my presence.

"What is Rosa to you?" I queried with emphasis.

"What is she to you?" he returned quickly.

"To me she is everything," I said.

"And to me, my young friend!"

I could not, of course, see Sir Cyril's face, but the tone of his
reply impressed and silenced me. I was mystified--and yet I felt glad
that he was there. Both of us forgot to be surprised at the
peculiarity of the scene. It appeared quite natural that he should
have supervened so dramatically at precisely the correct moment, and I
asked him for no more information. He evidently did know the place,
for he crept immediately to the ledge, and looked into the room above.
I followed, and stood by his side. The two women were still talking.

"Can't we get into the room, or do something?" I murmured.

"Not yet. How do we know that Deschamps means harm? Let us wait. Have
you a weapon?"

Sir Cyril spoke as one in command, and I accepted the assumption of
authority.

"Yes," I said; "I've got a revolver, and a little dagger."

"Who knows what may happen? Give me one of them--give me the dagger,
if you like."

I passed it to him in the darkness. Astounding as it may seem, I am
prepared solemnly to assert that at that moment I had forgotten the
history of the dagger, and Sir Cyril's connection with it.

I was just going to ask of what use weapons could be, situated as we
were, when I saw Deschamps with a sudden movement jump up from her
bed, her eyes blazing. With an involuntary cry in my throat I hammered
the glass in front of us with the butt of my revolver, but it was at
least an inch thick, and did not even splinter. Sir Cyril sprang from
the ledge instantly. Meanwhile Rosa, the change of whose features
showed that she divined the shameful trick played upon her, stood up,
half-indignant, half-terrified. Deschamps was no more dying than I