“Has it got on your nerves, too?” she inquired.  “Are you, too, afraid?”

“No, I’m not afraid!” replied Bouchard irritably.  “But aren’t you afraid to be left alone in the dark?  I’ll take you back to the sitting-room and you can wait there,” he added with a show of gallantry, which she improved on with a flattering if scared smile.

“I’m not afraid with you between me and the dungeons,” she said.  “I’ll hold my ground.  Don’t think me altogether a craven.”

“Very well,” was all that he could say.  “I came to see the dungeons, and I’ll see them!”

After the lantern flame grew fainter and finally disappeared around a bend, Marta emitted a peculiar, squeaky little laugh.  It sounded to her as if her own ghost—­the ghost of her former self—­were laughing in satire.  There was a devilish, mischievous joy in battling to outwit Bouchard more than in her deceit of Westerling.  Satire, yes—­needle-pointed, acid-tipped!  Melodrama done in burlesque, too.  In the name of the noble art of war, a bit of fooling about ghosts in a tunnel might influence the fate of armies that were the last word in modern equipment.  And men played at killing with a grand front of martial dignity, when such a little thing could turn the balance of slaughter!  The ghosts in the dungeons seemed about as real as anything, except the childishness of adult humanity in organized mass.  She laughed again, this time very softly, as she moved away from the panel door a few steps farther along the wall toward the entrance and again leaned back for support.

She had to wait a half-hour before she saw a yellow flame reappear and heard the dully echoing steps of Bouchard approaching.  That tiny push-button on the panel, of the color of stone, was in the shadow of her figure against the lantern’s rays, which gave a glazed and haunted effect to Bouchard’s eyes, rolling as he studied the walls and ceiling and floor of the tunnel in final baffled and desperate inquiry.

“Did you see anything?  Did you go into all the dungeons?” Marta called to him.

Bouchard did not answer.  Perhaps he was too full of disgust for words.  Marta, however, had plenty of words in her impatience for knowledge.

“If there were you must have caught them with a quick strangle-hold.  Or, did you see one and not dare to go on?  Tell me! tell me!” she insisted when he stopped before her, his expression a strange mixture of defiance and dissatisfaction while he was searching the wall around her figure.  Before his eye had any inclination to look as far away from her as the button she stepped free of the wall and laid her hand on Bouchard’s arm.  “I can’t wait!  I’ve nearly perished of suspense!” she cried.  “I’m just dying to know what you found.  Please tell me!”

Meanwhile, she was looking into his eyes, which were eagerly devouring the spot that her figure had hidden.  He saw nothing but bare stone.  Marta slipped her hand behind her and began brushing her back.