“You are amongst good friends.  Mlle. Celie,” said Hanaud with great gentleness.

“Oh, I wonder!  I wonder!” she cried piteously.

“Be very sure of it,” he said heartily, and she clung to the sleeve of his coat with desperate hands.

“I suppose you are friends,” she said; “else why—?” and she moved her numbed limbs to make certain that she was free.  She looked about the room.  Her eyes fell upon the sack and widened with terror.

“They came to me a little while ago in that cupboard there—­Adele and the old woman Jeanne.  They made me get up.  They told me they were going to take me away.  They brought my clothes and dressed me in everything I wore when I came, so that no single trace of me might be left behind.  Then they tied me.”  She tore off her gloves and showed them her lacerated wrists.  “I think they meant to kill me—­horribly.”  And she caught her breath and whimpered like a child.  Her spirit was broken.

“My poor girl, all that is over,” said Hanaud.  And he stood up.

But at the first movement he made she cried incisively, “No,” and tightened the clutch of her fingers upon his sleeve.

“But, mademoiselle, you are safe,” he said, with a smile.  She stared at him stupidly.  It seemed the words had no meaning for her.  She would not let him go.  It was only the feel of his coat within the clutch of her fingers which gave her any comfort.

“I want to be sure that I am safe,” she said, with a wan little smile.

“Tell me, mademoiselle, what have you had to eat and drink during the last two days?”

“Is it two days?” she asked.  “I was in the dark there.  I did not know.  A little bread, a little water.”

“That’s what is wrong,” said Hanaud.  “Come, let us go from here!”

“Yes, yes!” Celia cried eagerly.  She rose to her feet, and tottered.  Hanaud put his arm about her.  “You are very kind,” she said in a low voice, and again doubt looked out from her face and disappeared.  “I am sure that I can trust you.”

Ricardo fetched her cloak and slipped it on her shoulders.  Then he brought her hat, and she pinned it on.  She turned to Hanaud; unconsciously familiar words rose to her lips.

“Is it straight?” she asked.  And Hanaud laughed outright, and in a moment Celia smiled herself.

Supported by Hanaud she stumbled down the stairs to the garden.  As they passed the open door of the lighted parlour at the back of the house Hanaud turned back to Lemerre and pointed silently to the morphia-needle and the phial.  Lemerre nodded his head, and going into the room took them away.  They went out again into the garden.  Celia Harland threw back her head to the stars and drew in a deep breath of the cool night air.

“I did not think,” she said in a low voice, “to see the stars again.”

They walked slowly down the length of the garden, and Hanaud lifted her into the launch.  She turned and caught his coat.