How theatrical it all was!  And yet it had its zest.  I confess I experienced a certain thrill, entirely new to me, as I bent forward with my arms on my knees and my head lowered to hide my face.

“Attention, Georges!” I muttered beneath my breath.

The chauffeur started, knocking a tool from the running-board beside him.  His eyes, half-startled, half-fierce, fixed themselves on me; his hand went toward his pocket in a most significant way.  In a minute he would be shooting me, I reflected grimly.  And upstairs the very stillness of Van Blarcom shrieked suspicion; he could not have helped hearing the clatter that the falling tool had made.

“Don’t be a fool,” I muttered, low, but sharply.  “I know where you and mademoiselle come from; I know she is upstairs now; if I wished you any harm I could have had the mayor and the gendarmes here an hour ago!  Keep your head—­we are being watched.  Have a good look at me first if you feel you want to.  Then take your hand off that revolver and pretend to go to work.”

Throwing my head back, I began blowing clouds of smoke, wondering every instant whether a bullet would whiz through my brain.  I could feel Georges’ gaze upon me; I knew it was a critical moment.  But as his kind are quick, shrewd judges of caste and character, I had my hopes.

They were justified; for presently I heard him draw a breath of relief.  His hand came out of his pocket.

“Pardon, Monsieur,” he whispered, and began a vigorous pretense of polishing the car.

Again I leaned forward to hide the fact that my lips were moving.

“When you speak to me, keep your head bent as I do.”

“Monsieur, yes.”

“Now listen.  Men of the French army are here, with powers from the police.  They accuse mademoiselle of serious things, of acts of treason, of being on her way to secure papers for the foes of France.  They are watching.  To-morrow, if she departs, they mean to follow and to arrest her when they have gained proof of what she is hunting.”

“Mon Dieu, Monsieur! What shall I do?”

There was appeal in his voice.  Convinced of my good faith, he was quite simply shifting the business to my shoulders—­the French peasant trusting the man he ranked as of his master’s class.  And oddly enough I found myself responding as if to a trusted person.  I smoked a little, wondering whether Van Blarcom could catch the faint mutter of our voices.  Then I gave my orders in the same muffled tones: 

“You will tell the servants that you wish to sleep here to-night, to watch the car.  You will stay here very quietly until it is nearly dawn.  Then you will creep to mademoiselle’s door and whisper what I have told you and say that I beg her to meet me before those others have awakened at five o’clock in—­”

Pondering a rendezvous, I hesitated.  The room where I had dined, with its stone floor, its beamed ceiling, and dark panels, came first to my mind.  I fancied, though, that some outdoor spot might be safer.  I remembered opportunely that a passage led past this room, and that at its end I had glimpsed a little garden behind the inn.