“It has been so long, sir,” he pleaded.  “May I not come home?”

General Andre turned to the astonished group surrounding him.  His voice was hushed like that of one who speaks across an open grave.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “my children,” he added.  “A German spy, a woman, involved in a scandal your brother in arms, Henri Ravignac.  His honor, he thought, was concerned, and without honor he refused to live.  To prove him guiltless his younger brother Charles asked leave to seek out the woman who had betrayed Henri, and by us was detailed on secret service.  He gave up home, family, friends.  He lived in exile, in poverty, at all times in danger of a swift and ignoble death.  In the War Office we know him as one who has given to his country services she cannot hope to reward.  For she cannot return to him the years he has lost.  She cannot return to him his brother.  But she can and will clear the name of Henri Ravignac, and upon his brother Charles bestow promotion and honors.”

The general turned and embraced the spy.  “My children,” he said, “welcome your brother.  He has come home.”

Before the car had reached the fortifications, Marie Gessler had arranged her plan of escape.  She had departed from the chateau without even a hand-bag, and she would say that before the shops closed she must make purchases.

Le Printemps lay in their way, and she asked that, when they reached it, for a moment she might alight.  Captain Thierry readily gave permission.

From the department store it would be most easy to disappear, and in anticipation Marie smiled covertly.  Nor was the picture of Captain Thierry impatiently waiting outside unamusing.

But before Le Printemps was approached, the car turned sharply down a narrow street.  On one side, along its entire length, ran a high gray wall, grim and forbidding.  In it was a green gate studded with iron bolts.  Before this the automobile drew suddenly to a halt.  The crew of the armored car tumbled off the rear seat, and one of them beat upon the green gate.  Marie felt a hand of ice clutch at her throat.  But she controlled herself.

“And what is this?” she cried gayly.

At her side Captain Thierry was smiling down at her, but his smile was hateful.

“It is the prison of St. Lazare,” he said.  “It is not becoming,” he added sternly, “that the name of the Countess d’Aurillac should be made common as the Paris road!”

Fighting for her life, Marie thrust herself against him; her arm that throughout the journey had rested on the back of the driving-seat caressed his shoulders; her lips and the violet eyes were close to his.

“Why should you care?” she whispered fiercely.  “You have me!  Let the Count d’Aurillac look after the honor of his wife himself.”

The charming Thierry laughed at her mockingly.

“He means to,” he said.  “I am the Count d’Aurillac!”