“Yes,” she whispered; “a long time before us.  A month ago at least.”  Her eyes had begun to shine.  “Oh, I don’t dare to believe it; I’ve hardly dared to hope for it.  But if it is true, I am going to be happier than I ever thought I could be again.”

She made a swift movement toward the door, but I forestalled her.  Whatever that room held, I must have a look at it before she went.  I flung the door open, blocked her passage, and stopped in my tracks, for the best of reasons.  A young man was sitting on a battered oak chest beneath a window, facing me, and in his right hand, propped on his knees, there glittered a revolver that was pointed straight at my heart.

I stood petrified, measuring him.  He was lightly built and slender.  He had a manner as glittering as his weapon, and a pair of remarkably cool and clear gray eyes.  His picturesqueness seemed wasted on mere flesh and blood it was so perfect.  Coatless, but wearing a shirt of the finest linen, he looked like some old French duelist and ought, I felt, to be gazing at me, rapier in hand, from a gilt-framed canvas on the wall.

In the brief pause before he spoke I gathered some further data.  He was a sick man and he had recently been wounded; at present he was keeping up by sheer courage, not by strength.  His lips were pressed in a straight line, his eyes were shadowed, and his pallor was ghastly.  Finally, he was wearing his left arm in a sling across his breast.

“Monsieur,” he now enunciated clearly, “will raise both hands and keep them lifted.  Monsieur sees, doubtless, that I am in no state for a wrestling-match.  For that very reason he must take all pains not to forget himself—­for should he stir, however slightly, I grieve to say that I must shoot.”

The casualness of his tones made Blenheim’s menaces seem childish and futile.  I had not the slightest doubt that he would keep his word.  Yet, without any reason whatever, I liked him and I had no fear of him; I did not feel for a single instant that Miss Falconer was in danger; she was as safe with him, I knew instinctively, as she was with me.

I opened my lips to parley, but found myself interrupted.  A cry came from behind me, a low, utterly rapturous cry.  I was thrust aside, and saw the girl spring past me.  An instant later she was by the stranger, kneeling, with her arms about him and her bright head against his cheek.

“Jean!  Dear Jean!” she was crying between tears and laughter.  “We thought you were dead!  We thought you were never coming back to Raincy-la-Tour!”

It seemed to me that some one had struck my head a stunning blow.  For an interval I stood dazed; then, painfully, my brain stirred.  Things went dancing across it like sharp, stabbing little flames, guesses, memories, scraps of talk I had heard, items I had read; but they were scattered, without cohesion; like will-o’-the-wisps, they could not be seized.

There was a young man, a noble of France, who had been a hero.  I had read of him in a certain extra, as my steamer left New York.  He had disappeared.  Certain papers had vanished with him.  He had been suspected, because it was known that the Germans wanted those special documents.  All the world, I thought dully, seemed to be hunting papers; the French, the Germans, Miss Falconer, and I.