“The men in the gray car?” She swayed a little.  “But why?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”  My tone was grim; there were so many things about this matter that I couldn’t tell.

Her eyes flashed for an instant.

“But how cowardly, how cruel!  He never hurt anyone; he was just like a good watchdog, the truest, most faithful soul!  If they killed him they did it for some deliberate purpose.  And when I think that I brought him here—­oh, oh, Mr. Bayne—­”

“Yes,” I broke in hastily; “I should like to see them boil in oil or fry on gridirons or something of the sort, myself.  But this is very serious; we must keep calm, Miss Falconer.  And I know you are going to help me.  You have such splendid self-control.”

Though there were sobs in her throat, she pressed her hands to her lips and stifled them.  Only her pallor and her wet lashes showed the horror and grief she felt.  I wanted desperately to comfort her, but there was no time for it; and besides, who ever heard of a leather-coated comforter in a kitchen garden at 5 A.M.?

“What I wanted to speak about,” I went on rapidly, “was our plans.  This may prove a rather nasty mess, I’m sorry to say.  The French police, you know, are—­well, they’re capable and very thorough; and since you are here at the scene of a murder in an infirmiere’s costume, they will never rest till they have seen your papers, learned your errand, asked you a hundred things.  Unless your replies are absolutely satisfactory, the whole business will be—­er—­awkward for you.  That is why I put on these togs.  Yes, I know it is ghastly,” I owned as she shuddered.  “And that is why I want to beg you, very seriously indeed, to let me drive you back to Paris and put you under your friends’ protection.  After that, of course, I’ll return here to see the thing through and give my testimony about it all.”

It was not going to be so simple, the course I had outlined airily.  When I visioned myself explaining to a French commissaire why I had come to Bleau at all; why I had set up a false claim to be an artist,—­for that circumstance was sure to leak out and look darkly incriminating,—­and what had inspired me to take a murdered man’s clothes and conceal his body, I can’t pretend that I felt much zest.  Still, if the police and the girl came together, worse would follow, I was certain; and it seemed like a real catastrophe when she slowly shook her head.

“I can’t,” she murmured.  “Oh, it’s kind of you, and I’m sorry; but I can’t go back to Paris—­not yet, Mr. Bayne.  You won’t understand, of course, but I left there to—­to accomplish something.  And since poor Georges can’t help me now, I must go on—­alone.”

CHAPTER XVII

I BURN MY BRIDGES