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.