Hitherto she had been appealing; but now she defied frankly.  That tint of hers, like nothing but a wild rose, drove away her pallor; her gray eyes flamed.

“But still,” she flashed at me, “you won’t inform on me just for that?  I asked you to help me; you were free to refuse—­and you agreed!  Because it inconvenienced you a little, are you going to turn police agent?” Her red lips twisted proudly, scornfully.  “I don’t believe it, Mr. Bayne!”

I laughed shortly.  She was indeed an artist.

“I wasn’t thinking of that particular episode—­” I began.

“But you did resent it.  I saw it when you first joined me.  And I was so glad to see you—­to have the chance of thanking you!” she broke in, smoldering still.

“No, I didn’t resent it.  I didn’t even blame you.  If I blamed any one, Miss Falconer, it would certainly be myself.  I’ve concluded I ought not to go about without a keeper.  My gullibility must have amused you tremendously.”  I laughed.

“I never thought you gullible,” she denied, suddenly wistful.  “I thought you very generous and very chivalrous, Mr. Bayne.”

This was carrying mockery too far.

“I am afraid,” I said meaningly, “that the authorities at Gibraltar would take a less flattering view.  For instance, if those Englishmen learned that I had refrained from telling them of our meeting at the St. Ives, I should hear from them, I fancy.”

Again her eyes were widening.  What attractive eyes she had!

“The St. Ives?” she repeated wonderingly.  “Why should that interest them?  What do you mean?” Then, suddenly, she bent forward, propped her elbows on the table, and amazed me with a slow, astonished, comprehending smile.  “I see!” she murmured, studying me intently.  “You thought that I screened the man who hid those papers, that I crossed the ocean on—­similar business, perhaps even that on this side I was to take the documents from your trunk?”

“Naturally,” I rejoined stiffly.  “And I congratulate you.  It was a brilliant piece of work; though, as its victim, I fail to see it in the rosiest light.”

“I understand,” she went on, still smiling faintly.  “You thought I was—­well—­Look over yonder.”

Her glance, seeking the opposite wall unostentatiously, directed my attention to a black-lettered, conspicuously posted sign: 

BE SILENT!

BE MISTRUSTFUL!

THE EARS OF THE ENEMY ARE LISTENING!

Thus it shouted its warning, like the thousands of its kind that are scattered about the trains, the boats, the railroad stations, and all the public places of France.

“You thought I was the ears of the enemy, didn’t you?” the girl was asking.  “You thought I was a German agent.  I might have guessed!  Well, in that case it was kind of you not to hand me over to the Modane gendarmes.  I ought to thank you.  But I wasn’t so suspicious when they searched your trunk and found the papers—­I simply felt that they must be crazy to think you could be a spy.”