"It is nothing," murmured Dulcie.

"Do you feel all right?" inquired Barres anxiously.

"I feel sleepy." She sat erect, always with her grey eyes on Barres.

"I think I will go to bed." She stood up, conscious, now, of her shabby clothes and slippers; and there was a painful flush on her face as she thanked Thessalie and bade her a confused good-night.

But Thessalie took the girl's hand and retained it.

"Please don't say anything about what happened," she said. "May I ask it of you as a very great favour?"

Dulcie turned her eyes on Barres in silent appeal for guidance.

"Do you mind not saying anything about this affair," he asked, "as long as Miss Dunois wishes it?"

"Should I not tell my father?"

"Not even to him," replied Thessalie gently. "Because it won't ever happen again. I am very certain of that. Will you trust my word?"

Again Dulcie looked at Barres, who nodded.

"I promise never to speak of it," she said in a low, serious voice.

Barres took her down stairs. At the desk she pointed out, at his request, the scene of recent action. Little by little he discovered, by questioning her, what a dogged battle she had fought there alone in the whitewashed corridor.

"Why didn't you call for help?" he asked.

"I don't know.... I didn't think of it. And when he got away I was dizzy from the blow."

At her bedroom door he took both her hands in his. The gas-jet was still burning in her room. On the bed lay her pretty evening dress.

"I'm so glad," she remarked navely, "that I had on my old clothes."

He smiled, drew her to him, and lightly smoothed the thick, bright hair from her brow.

"You know," he said, "I am becoming very fond of you, Dulcie. You're such a splendid girl in every way.... We'll always remain firm friends, won't we?"

"Yes."

"And in perplexity and trouble I want you to feel that you can always come to me. Because--you do like me, don't you, Dulcie?"

For a moment or two she sustained his smiling, questioning gaze, then laid her cheek lightly against his hands, which still held both of hers imprisoned. And for one exquisite instant of spiritual surrender her grey eyes closed. Then she straightened herself up; he released her hands; she turned slowly and entered her room, closing the door very gently behind her.

In the studio above, Thessalie, still wearing her rose-coloured cloak, sat awaiting him by the window.

He crossed the studio, dropped onto the lounge beside her, and lighted a cigarette. Neither spoke for a few moments. Then he said:

"Thessa, don't you think you had better tell me something about this ugly business which seems to involve you?"

"I can't, Garry."

"Why not?"

"Because I shall not take the risk of dragging you in."

"Who are these people who seem to be hounding you?"

"I can't tell you."

"You trust me, don't you?"

She nodded, her face partly averted:

"It isn't that. And I had meant to tell you something concerning this matter--tell you just enough so that I might ask your advice. In fact, that is what I wrote you in that letter--being rather scared and desperate.... But half my letter to you has been stolen. The people who stole it are clever enough to piece it out and fill in what is missing----"

She turned impulsively and took his hands between her own. Her face had grown quite white.

"How much harm have I done to you, Garry? Have I already involved you by writing as much as I did write? I have been wondering.... I couldn't bear to bring anything like that into your life----"

"Anything like what?" he asked bluntly. "Why don't you tell me, Thessa?"

"No. It's too complicated--too terrible. There are elements in it that would shock and disgust you.... And perhaps you would not believe me----"

"Nonsense!"

"The Government of a great European Power does not believe me to be honest!" she said very quietly. "Why should you?"

"Because I know you."

She smiled faintly:

"You're such a dear," she murmured. "But you talk like a boy. What do you really know about me? We have met just three times in our entire lives. Do any of those encounters really enlighten you? If you were a business man in a responsible position, could you honestly vouch for me?"

"Don't you credit me with common sense?" he insisted warmly.

She laughed:

"No, Garry, dear, not with very much. Even I have more than you, and that is saying very little. We are inclined to be irresponsible, you and I--inclined to take the world lightly, inclined to laugh, inclined to tread the moonlit way! No, Garry, neither you nor I possess very much of that worldly caution born of hardened wisdom and sharpened wits."

She smiled almost tenderly at him and pressed his hands between her own.

"If I had been worldly wise," she said, "I should never have danced my way to America through summer moonlight with you. If I had been wiser still, I should not now be an exile, my political guilt established, myself marked for destruction by a great European Power the instant I dare set foot on its soil."

"I supposed your trouble to be political," he nodded.

"Yes, it is." She sighed, looked at him with a weary little smile.

"But, Garry, I am not guilty of being what that nation believes me to be."