“Georges, c’est vous?” It was the drowsiest of murmurs, but few things have been so welcome to me in all my life.

“Yes, Mademoiselle.”  Though my knees were wobbling under me I summoned presence of mind to impersonate the poor huddled mass of flesh in the garage.

“Attendez donc!”

I could hear her stirring; she believed I had come with some summons, with some news.  Well, it was imperative that I should see her.  I waited obediently until the door swung open and revealed her in a loose robe of blue, with her hair in a ruddy mass about her shoulders and the sleep still lingering in her eyes.

“Mr. Bayne!”

Such was my relief at finding my fears uncalled for that I could have danced a breakdown on that crazy gallery, snapping my fingers in castanet fashion above my head.  I had forgotten entirely the strained terms of our parting; but she remembered.  A bright wave of scarlet ran over her face, her neck, her forehead.  She gasped, clutched her robe about her, would have shut the door if I had not foreseen the strategic movement and inserted a foot in the diminishing crack, just in time.

“I beg your pardon,” I began hastily.  “I am really extremely sorry.  But something has occurred that forces me to speak to you.”

“There can be nothing that forces you to come here—­nothing!” Her lips were trembling; her voice wavered; the apparent shamelessness of my behavior was driving her to the verge of tears.  “Is there no place where I am safe from you?  Mr. Bayne, how can you?  I shan’t listen to a single word while you keep your foot in the door!”

“And I can’t take it away until you listen,” I protested.  “It is perfectly obvious that if I did, you would shut me out.  But you can see for yourself that I’m not trying to force an entrance—­and I wish that you would speak lower; if we waken anybody, there will be the mischief to pay.”

My voice, I suppose, had an impatient note that was reassuring, or perhaps I looked encouragingly respectable, viewed at closer range.  At any rate, she spoke less angrily, though she still stood erect and haughty.

“Well, what is it?” she asked, barring the opening with one slender arm.

“May I ask if you have had a message from me, Miss Falconer?”

“A message?  Certainly not!” There was renewed suspicion in her voice.

“H’m.”  Then they had intercepted the man before he reached her.  “I’m going to ask you to dress as quickly and quietly as possible and come downstairs.  Don’t stop in the court, and don’t go near the garage, I beg of you.  Just walk on past the salle a manger to the garden, and wait for me.”

I expected exclamations, questions, indignant protests, anything but the sudden white calm that fell on her at my request.

“You mean,” she whispered, “that something dreadful has happened.  Is it about the—­the men who came last night?”