“You are going to meet a lady in Paris. Is it not so?”

“I must really — ”

“Take advice. Move no further in that affair.”

I attempted to pass her, but she held me by the sleeve. She went on with emphasis:

“Rosetta Rosa will never be allowed to sing in ‘Carmen’ at the Op�ra Comique. Do you understand?”

“Great Scott!” I said, “I believe you must be Carlotta Deschamps.”

It was a half-humorous inspiration on my part, but the remark produced an immediate effect on the woman, for she walked away with a highly theatrical scowl and toss of the head. I recalled what Marie Deschamps had said in the train about her stepsister, and also my suspicion that Rosa’s