"You're all right," I reminded him. "I'm the person who nearly found trouble. A few more paragraphs about that mysterious jewel robbery and the probability of immediate arrest would have sent me into a nervous decline." Rose laughed in my face, her white teeth gleaming. The little creases at the corners of her eyes deepened. "Rubbish!" she scoffed. "You know perfectly well that you never turned a hair." "As a matter of fact," I admitted, "I am beginning to have confidence in Mr. Mephistopheles Thomson. Whether he is of heaven or earth, of the law or of the underworld, he seems to have a remarkably good idea of how to take care of himself and his minions." "Considering that he has three perfectly good consciences to look after besides his own," Rose agreed, "I must say that he does very well." "His interests appear to be somewhat cosmopolitan," Leonard observed, leaning back in his chair and gazing around him. "So much the better," Rose declared. "It means plenty of change for us, and I like change, only this time I hope my affections are not going to be trifled with." "You shouldn't wear your heart on your sleeve for sentimental Russians to nibble at," I ventured. She made a little grimace. I fancy I should have been the recipient of a scathing remark but for the approach of Monsieur Huber, the proprietor of the café. He bowed with great politeness to Rose and handed me a typewritten envelope of familiar appearance. I tore it open and glanced at its brief contents: I beg that you will respond to any advances made to you by any regular patrons of the Café des Quatres Etoiles. I held the note out so that the two others could read it. Then I thrust it into my pocket. "Mademoiselle sang charmingly to-night," Monsieur Huber declared, rolling his eyes. "I didn't see you amongst the audience, Monsieur Huber," she replied demurely. "When you sing I am never far away, Mademoiselle," was the impressive response. "I was standing at the back of the Baroness Spens' box." Rose glanced upwards at the box which he indicated. A large woman was seated there, dressed in an elaborate evening gown, with jewels sparkling from her bosom and hair. She was dark, with a strong masculine face, a woman who had once, beyond a doubt, been handsome, but whose countenance was now almost forbidding. I recognised her as one of the regular patrons of the café. "The Baroness," Monsieur Huber continued, "is one of my best clients. She is very good to all my artistes. Sometimes she has them at her home. She pays, too--pays very well. But excuse me--she calls." The Baroness, with a short, rather thick-set Belgian girl, and a fat, elderly man, who had almost fallen on to the stage applauding the little French soubrette, occupied the stage box, which was on a level with the promenade. Monsieur Huber hurried over towards it, exchanged a few words with his patroness and returned to us.