The door opened almost noiselessly.
Catherine, who was seated before a small, ebony writing table,
turned her head at his entrance.
"You?" she exclaimed.
Julian listened for a moment and then closed the door. She sat
watching him, with the pen still in her fingers.
"Miss Abbeway," he said, "have you heard any news this evening?"
The pen with which she had been tapping the table was suddenly
motionless. She turned a little farther around.
"News?" she repeated. "No! Is there any?"
"A man was caught upon the marshes this morning and shot an hour
ago. They say that he was a spy."
She sat as though turned to stone.
"Well?"
"The military police are still hunting for his companion. They
are now searching the garage here to see if they can find a small,
grey, coupe car."
This time she remained speechless, but all those ill-defined fears
which had gathered in his heart seemed suddenly to come to a head.
Her appearance had changed curiously during the last hour. There
was a hunted, almost a desperate gleam in her eyes, a drawn look
about her mouth as she sat looking at him.
"How do you know this?" she asked.
"The Colonel of the regiment stationed here has just arrived. He
is down in the garage now with my father."
"Shot!" she murmured. "Most Dieu!"
"I want to help you," he continued.
Her eyes questioned him almost fiercely.
"You are sure?"
"I am sure."
"You know what it means?"
"I do."
"How did you guess the truth?"
"I remembered your mouth," he told her.
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