Did they perish on this coast when their ship perished? A drift-wood fire is beautiful, but a little sad, too." She looked up pensively over her shoulder. "Will you bring a chair to the fire?" she asked.

"We are burning part of a great ship--for our pleasure, monsieur.

Tell me what ship it was; tell me a story to amuse me--not a melancholy one, if you please."

I drew a chair to the blaze; the drift-wood burned gold and violet, with scarcely a whisper of its velvet flames.

"I am afraid my story is not going to be very cheerful," I said, "and I am also afraid that I must ask you to listen to it."

She met my eyes with composure, leaned a little toward me, and waited.

And so, sitting there in the tinted glare, I told her of the death of Delmont and of Tavernier, and of Buckhurst's share in the miserable work.

I spoke in a whisper scarcely louder than the rustle of the flames, watching the horror growing in her face.

I told her that the money she had intrusted to them for the Red Cross was in my possession, and would be forwarded at the first chance; that I hoped to bring Buckhurst to justice that very night.

"Madame, I am paining you," I said; "but I am going to cause you even greater unhappiness."

"Tell me what is necessary," she said, forming the words with tightened lips.

"Then I must tell you that it is necessary for Mademoiselle Elven to leave Trecourt to-night."

She looked at me as though she had not heard.

"It is absolutely necessary," I repeated. "She must go secretly. She must leave her effects; she must go in peasant's dress, on foot."

"Why?"

"It is better that I do not tell you, madame."

"Tell me. It is my right to know."

"Not now; later, if you insist."

The young Countess pa.s.sed one hand over her eyes as though dazed.

"Does Sylvia know this?" she asked, in a shocked voice.

"Not yet."

"And you are going to tell her?"

"Yes, madame."

"This is dreadful," she muttered.... "If I did not know you,... if I did not trust you so perfectly,... trust you with all my heart!... Oh, are you certain she must go? It frightens me; it is so strange! I have grown fond of her.... And now you say that she must go. I cannot understand--I cannot."

"No, you cannot understand," I repeated, gently; "but she can. It is a serious matter for Mademoiselle Elven; it could not easily be more serious. It is even perhaps a question of life or death, madame."

"In Heaven's name, help her, then!" she said, scarcely controlling the alarm that brought a pitiful break in her voice.

"I am trying to," I said. "And now I must consult Mademoiselle Elven. Will you help me?"

"What can I do?" she asked, piteously.

"Stand by that window. Look, madame, can you see the lights on the semaph.o.r.e?"

"Yes."

"Count them aloud."

She counted the white lights for me, then the red ones.

"Now," I said, "if those lights change in number or color or position, come instantly to me. I shall be with Mademoiselle Elven in the little tea-room. But," I added, "I do not expect any change in the lights; it is only a precaution."

I left her in the shadow of the curtains, and pa.s.sed through the room to Sylvia's side. She looked up quietly from her embroidery frame, then, dropping the tinted silks and needles on the cloth, rose and walked beside me past Eyre, who stood up as we came abreast of him.

Sylvia paused. "Monsieur Eyre," she said, "I have a question to ask you ... some day," and pa.s.sed on with a smile and a slight inclination of her head, leaving Eyre looking after her with heavy eyes.

When we entered the little tea-room she pa.s.sed on to the lounge and seated herself on the padded arm; I turned, closed the door, and walked straight toward her.

She glanced up at me curiously; something in my face appeared to sober her, for the amused smile on her lips faded before I spoke.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I am sorry to tell you," I said--"sorry from my heart. You are not very friendly to me, and that makes it harder for me to say what I have to say."

She was watching me intently out of her pretty, intelligent eyes.

"What do you mean?" she asked, guardedly.

"I mean that you cannot stay here," I said. "And you know why."

The color flooded her face, and she stood up, confronting me, exasperated, defiant.

"Will you explain this insult?" she asked, hotly.

"Yes. You are a German spy," I said, under my breath.

There was no color in her face now--nothing but a glitter in her blue eyes and a glint from the small, white teeth biting her lower lip.

"French troops will land here to-night or to-morrow," I went on, calmly. "You will see how dangerous your situation is certain to become when Buckhurst is taken, and when it is understood _what use you have made of the semaph.o.r.e_."

She winced, then straightened and bent her steady gaze on me. Her courage was admirable.

"I thank you for telling me," she said, simply. "Have I a chance to reach the Spanish frontier?"

"I think you have," I replied. "Kelly Eyre is going with you when--"

"He? No, no, he must not! Does he know what I am?" she broke in, impetuously.