Like a sleuth noting salient points, I glanced round the rectangular court.  At my right, off the gallery, was Miss Falconer’s room shrouded in darkness; at the left, up another flight of stairs, my own uninviting domain.  The quarters of Van Blarcom and his uniformed friends opened from the gallery above the street passage, facing the main portion of the inn which sheltered the kitchen and salle a manger.  Such was the simple, homely stage-setting.  What of the play?

Bleau, I now felt tolerably sure, was merely a mile-stone on the route of Miss Falconer.  Next morning, at sunrise probably, she would resume her journey for parts unknown.  Would they arrest her before she left the inn or merely follow her?  The latter, doubtless, since they asserted that she was on her way to get the papers that they wanted for France.

Upstairs in the room where Van Blarcom and I had held our conference the shutters had been reopened.  There was just one light to be seen, a glowing point, which was obviously the tip of a cigar.  If I was keeping vigil below, from above he returned the compliment; nor did he mean that I should hold any secret colloquy with the girl that night.  I swore softly, but earnestly.  Considering his rather decent attitude, his efforts from the very first to enlighten me as to the dangers I was running, it was odd that my detestation of the man was so thoroughly ingrained and so profound.

The mystery of the gray car had been solved with a vengeance.  Instead of being freighted with accomplices, as I had at first thought possible, it had carried the representatives of justice, in the persons of three officers and my secret-service friend.  A queer conjunction, that; but then, my ignorance of French methods was abysmal.  Perhaps this was the usual mode of doing things in time of war.

Van Blarcom’s explanation, though it made me furious, had brought conviction.  There was a certain grim appositeness about it all.  The night in New York, the events of the steamer, the unsatisfactory character of the girl’s actions, all fitted neatly into the plan; and the mere personnel of the pursuing party was sufficient assurance, for French officers, as I well knew, were neither liars nor fools.  Neither, I patriotically assumed, were the men of my country’s secret-service, however humble their part as cogs in that great machinery, or however distasteful Mr. Van Blarcom, personally, might be to me.  And finally, I could not deny that women, clever, well-born, and beautiful, had served as spies a thousand times in the world’s history, urged to it by some sense of duty, some tie of blood.

Yes, that was it, I told myself in sudden pity, recalling how Miss Falconer had stood on the steps in her nurse’s costume, straight and slender, her gray eyes full of fire, her face glowing like a rose.  Perhaps she was of the enemy’s country.  Perhaps those she loved, those who made up her life, had set her feet in this path that she was treading.  If she was a spy,—­Lord!  How the mere word hurt one!—­it wasn’t for ignoble motives; it wasn’t for pay.