He had enveloped her in glamour; his most preciously trained mental qualities lapsed in her presence.  It was time that she was regarded impersonally, as a woman, by the critical eye of the chief of staff.  A cool and intense impatience possessed him to study her in the light Of his new scepticism, when, turning the path of the first terrace, he saw her watching the sunset over the crest of the range.

She was standing quite still, a slim, soft shadow between him and the light, which gilded her figure and quarter profile.  Did she expect him? he wondered.  Was she posing at that instant for his benefit?  And the answer, could he have searched her secret brain, was, Yes—­yes, if the conscious and the subconscious mind are to be considered as one responsible intelligence.  He usually came at that hour.  But he had not come last night.  They had not met since Bouchard’s ghost hunt.

There was no firing near by; only desultory artillery practice in the distance.  She heard the familiar crunch of five against three on the gravel.  She knew that he had stopped at the turn of the path, and she was certain that he was looking at her!  But she did not make the slightest movement.  The golden light continued to caress her profile.  Then, crunch, crunch, rather slowly, the five against three drew nearer.  The delay had been welcome; it had been to her a moment’s respite to get her breath before entering the lists.  When she turned, her face in the shadow, the glow of the sunset seemed to remain in her eyes, otherwise without expression, yet able to detect something unusual under externals as they exchanged commonplaces of greeting.

“Well, there’s a change in our official family.  We have lost Bouchard—­transferred to another post!” said Westerling.

Marta noted that, though he gave the news a casual turn, his scrutiny sharpened.

“Is that so?  I can’t say that my mother and I shall be sorry,” she remarked.  “He was always glaring at us as if he wished us out of his sight.  Indeed, if he had his way, I think he would have made us prisoners of war.  Wasn’t he a woman-hater?” she concluded, half in irritation, half in amusement.

“He had that reputation,” said Westerling.  “What do you think led to his departure?” he continued.

“I confess I cannot guess!” said Marta, with a look at the sunset glow as if she resented the loss of a minute of it.

“There has been a leak of information to the Browns!” he announced.

“There has!  And he was intelligence officer, wasn’t he?” she asked, turning to Westerling, her curiosity apparently roused as a matter of courtesy to his own interest in the subject.

“Who do you think he accused?  Why, you,” he added, with a peculiar laugh.

She noted the peculiarity of the laugh discriminatingly.

“Oh!” Her eyes opened wide in wonder—­only wonder, at first.  Then, as comprehension took the place of wonder, they grew sympathetic.  “That explains!” she exclaimed.  “His hateful glances were those of delusion.  He was going mad, you mean?”