Julian hastened off, with a word of thanks.  The boudoir was a small room opening from the suite which had been given to the Princess and her niece a quaint, almost circular apartment, hung with faded blue Chinese silk and furnished with fragments of the Louis Seize period,—­a rosewood cabinet, in particular, which had come from Versailles, and which was always associated in Julian’s mind with the faint fragrance of two Sevres jars of dried rose leaves.  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.  “I saw your car last night, and I traced it up the avenue this morning.”

“A mouth isn’t much to go by,” she observed, with a very wan smile.

“It happens to be your mouth,” he replied.

She rose to her feet and stood for a moment as though listening.  Then she thrust her hand down into the bosom of her gown and produced a small roll of paper wrapped in a sheet of oilskin.  He took it from her at once and slipped it into the breast pocket of his coat.

“You understand what you are doing?” she persisted.

“Perfectly;” he replied.

She crossed the room towards the hearthrug and stood there for a moment, leaning against the mantelpiece.

“Is there anything else I can do?” he asked.

She turned around.  There was a wonderful change in her face.