Ruth was whisked back to the hospital. On the way Monsieur Lafrane assured her that she would be gratefully remembered by the French secret police for what seemed to her, after all, a very simple thing.
The men were confident of soon apprehending Legrand and his companions. “And then—the jug!” ejaculated the leader, using with gusto what he fondly believed to be another Americanism.
It was not likely that Ruth would sleep much that night. Her mind was greatly overwrought. But finally, about daylight, when she did fall into a more or less refreshing sleep, an orderly came to her door and knocked until she responded.
“Mademoiselle has waiting for her on the steps a visitor,” he said, with a chuckle. “She should come down at once.”
“A visitor, Henri?” she cried. “Who can it be?”
“One young Americaine,” he replied, and went away cheerfully humming a tune.
“What can that Charlie Bragg want at this hour in the morning?” Ruth murmured, yet hurrying her toilet. “Possibly he brings news of Tom!”
Down she ran to the court as soon as she was neat. A man was sitting on the steps, leaning against the doorpost. It was not Charlie, for he was in military uniform and she could see an officer’s insignia. He was asleep.
She saw as she left the stairway and crossed the entrance hall that he wore his arm in a sling. She thought instantly of the unknown American in Lyse Hospital who had lost his forearm. Then——
“Tom Cameron!” she cried, and sprang to his side.