"Very well," she answered patiently. "We will try you further."
And for two hours she shot questions at me, attacking the problem from every conceivable angle, always with her eyes glued on my eyes, always vigilant for any sign of acquiescence or denial. At last Toutou barked an observation at her, and she leaned back a trifle wearily.
"We approach Lyons," she said. "I shall let you go this time, Mr. Nash, principally because if we killed you it might frighten your friends away. Above everything, if we cannot learn the secret first, we must get you to Constantinople."
Toutou took from one of their bags a length of stout rope, and tied my legs from ankle to knee. The train was already whistling for the station yards. Hélène donned hat and furs, and patted my shoulder.
"I wish you were with us, my friend. Ah, well, one wishes for the moon. Be of a stout heart, and remember that Hélène de Cespedes has saved you from the knife. I fancy we shall meet again, and as I said, I cannot promise always to be so kind-hearted."
She let Toutou collect their two bags, saw him to the door and then switched off the single light. They went out, the door closed, and I was in darkness. I strained at my bonds, but without success. Suddenly, the door was reopened. The head of Hélène de Cespedes showed against the lights in the corridor.
"Here is the key to those wristlets," she whispered, sliding it along the seat toward me. "Your friends can unlock them when they find you. I don't believe in being too hard on an enemy—not when you don't have to be. Well, so long, boy."
I chuckled to myself as the door clicked the second time. She was a character, and no ordinary woman, judging by her prowess in curbing Toutou's savage lusts. I was still reflecting on the amazing three hours I had experienced in that railway compartment, when the brakes took hold, and the train slowed to a stop between the brightly-lighted platforms of the Lyons station. There was the customary clatter of arriving and departing passengers. Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside; a hand wrenched at the door; and a guard bundled in, with two people behind him. As he turned on the light his face was a study in consternation. The two people with him bolted pell-mell into the corridor, shrieking in terror. The guard stood fast, and stared at me, stroking his chin.
"Sacré bleu!" he muttered to himself. "Name of a Boche, the mad Englishman was right! I believe they have murdered his friend!"
But then I wriggled to attract his attention to the fact that I was alive, and the consternation on his face changed to cunning.