I achieved a shrug of my shoulders, a polite air of incredulity; but, to tell the truth, I was a little less skeptical than I appeared.  There was something in her manner that by no means suggested pretense.  And she had said a true word about the occurrences on the Re d’Italia.  If appearances meant facts, I myself had been proved guilty up to the hilt.

“Mr. Bayne,” she was saying soberly, “I should like you to believe me—­please!  I am an American, and I have had cause lately to hate the Germans; all my bonds are with our own country and with France.  There is some one very dear to me to whom this war has worked a cruel injustice.  I have come to try to help that person; and for certain reasons—­I can’t explain them—­I had to come in secret or not at all.  But I have done nothing wrong, nothing dishonorable.  And so”—­again her eyes challenged me—­“I shall not sail from Bordeaux on the Espagne on Saturday; and you shall choose for yourself whether you will speak of me to the French police.”

It was not much of an argument, regarded dispassionately; yet it shook me.  With sudden craftiness I resolved to trap her if I could.

“I ought to tell them on the mere chance that they would send you home,” I grumbled irritably.  “You have no business here, you know, helping people and being suspected and pursued and outrageously annoyed by fools like me.  Yes, and by other fools—­and worse,” I added with feigned sulphurousness, indicated Van Blarcom.  “Miss Falconer, would you mind glancing at the third man on the right—­the dark man who is staring at us—­and telling me whether or not you ever saw him before you sailed?”

“I am sure I never did,” she declared, knitting puzzled brows; “and yet on the Re d’Italia he insisted that we had met.  It frightened me a little.  I wondered whether or not he suspected something.  And every time I see him he watches me in that same way.”

I was thawing, despite myself.

“There’s one other thing,” I ventured, “if you won’t think me too impertinent:  Did you ever hear of a man named Franz von Blenheim?”

“No,” she said blankly; “I never did.  Who is he?”

No birds out of that covert!  If this was acting it was marvelous; there had not been the slightest flicker of confusion in her face.

“Oh, he isn’t anybody of importance—­just a man,” I evaded.  “Look here, Miss Falconer, you’ll have to forgive me if you can.  You shall stay in Paris, and I’ll be as silent as the grave concerning you; but I’d like to do more than that.  Won’t you let me come and call?  Really, you know, I’m not such a duffer as you have cause to think me.  After we got acquainted you might be willing to trust me with this business, whatever it is.  And then, if it’s not too desperate, I have friends who could be of help to you.”  Such was the sop I threw to conscience, the bargain I struck between sober reason and the instinct that made me trust her against all odds.  My theories must have been moonshine.  Everything was all right, probably.  But for the sake of prudence I ought to keep track of her.  Besides, I wanted to.