“I never really cared for him; I’m too wise for that.  I don’t care for him now.  I detest the poor, simple-minded fool.  I—­hate him.”  So she fought with herself, drowning the persistent piping of that other voice.  Then her eyes dropped to that fatal paper in her lap and suddenly venom fled from her.  She wondered if Cavendish would tell Pierce that he had given her the pink ticket.  Probably not.  The Mounted Police were usually close-mouthed about such things, and yet—­Laure crushed the paper into a crumpled ball and furtively hid it in the pocket of her coat; then she raised wild, apprehensive eyes to the door.  If only she dared slip out now, before Pierce reappeared, before he had a chance to see her.  It seemed as if she could not bear to have him know, but—­Cavendish had ordered her to wait.  “My God!” the girl whispered.  “I’ll die, if he knows!  I’ll die!” She began to tremble wretchedly and to wring her hands; she could not remove her gaze from the door.

This waiting-room at the Barracks had housed people of divers and many sorts during its brief history; it had harbored strained faces, it had been the scene of strong emotional conflicts, but never, perhaps, had its narrow walls encompassed emotions in wider contrast than those experienced by the four silent women who waited there at this moment.  One object of interest dominated the thoughts of each of them.  These thoughts were similar in nature and sprang from the same starting-point.  Curiously enough, however, they took channels as wide apart as the poles.

Josephine Cavendish had heard just enough about the incidents of the previous night to awaken her apprehensions and to stir her feeling of loyalty to the depths.  The suggestion that Pierce Phillips was in the slightest degree responsible for the death of Count Courteau had roused her indignation and her fighting-blood.  Unable to endure the suspense of idle waiting, she had sought relief by assuming a sort of sentinel post where she could watch developments.  It was something to be close to his affairs.  It was next to being close to him; hence the reason of her presence and her insistence upon remaining.

In her mind there had never been the slightest question of Pierce’s innocence; any doubt of it, expressed or implied, awoke in her a sharp and bitter antagonism quite remarkable; no bird could have flown quicker to the aid of her chick, no wolf mother could have bristled more ferociously at threat to her cub, than did this serene, inexperienced girl-woman at hint of peril to Pierce Phillips.  And yet, on the surface, at least, she and Pierce were only friends.  He had never voiced a word of love to her.  But--of what use are words when hearts are full and when confession lurks in every glance, every gesture; when every commonplace is thrilling and significant?