“Yes.”

He did not look angered.  Indeed, his eyes softened till I thought him near tears.  “And you will do this for me!  Run all this risk!  And yet you never saw me before to-day!” He touched his hand to mine.

Somehow this again annoyed me.  The man was concealing something from me, yet affected to be moved to open emotion by his gratitude.  I was not at the bottom of him yet.  I removed his hand.

“Monsieur, you forget,” I corrected.  “You said we were foes, and we are.  I never embraced an Englishman, and I shall not begin now—­now that our nations are at war.  You may be a spy.”

“You think me a spy!”

I sighed from exasperation, and pointed to the window.  “Monsieur Starling, wake up to this situation.  What does it matter what you are, or what I think?  We waste time.  Say that you will follow me, and I shall go and make my plans.”

But still he looked at me.  “Then you encumber yourself with me from abstract duty.  Personally you distrust me.”

The truth seemed best.  I bowed.

He thought this over.  “Then I refuse to go,” he decided quietly.  “I refuse.”  And he bowed toward the door to put a period to our interview.

But here my patience broke.  I took him by the arm, and held him ungently.  “Words!  Words!  Words!” I mocked at him.  “What would you have me say?  That I love you?  In faith, I don’t.  You irritate me; annoy me.  But save you I will, if only for my peace of mind.  Look at me.  Look at me, I say.”

He obeyed.  All his hard nonchalance had returned.

“Do you trust me?” I demanded.

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Then you will come with me?”

“No, monsieur.”

This was madness—­and it took time.  “Indeed you will come,” I said between my teeth.  “And that without more words.  Good-by.”

But he caught my sleeve.  “Then you take me against my will.”

I brushed him away.  “And against mine, too, if you balk my wishes at every turn.  But I will take you.  It is the only chance you have, and if you are mad enough to refuse it, I must force it on you.  Remember, I shall use force.  Now stay by the window, and await my signal.  I shall come when I can.”

He followed to the door.  “You will not need to use force with me, monsieur,” he said soberly.  “If you insist on taking me, I shall follow your directions, and use what wit I can.  But I cannot thank you, for I cannot feel grateful.  You give under protest, and I accept in the same way.  It is a forced companionship.  I do not wish to die; but, after all, it will soon be over, and life has not been sweet.  I would rather risk what meets me here than take help from you, now that I see you give it grudgingly.”

This chilled me, and excuses pressed hot on my tongue.  Yet it was unwise to protest.  Why should I wish his gratitude?  It would hamper us both.  I had no desire to bind him to me with obligations.  I felt shame for my coldness; but, for once, my head ruled, and I let the situation stand.