Monsieur is about again in the usual way, and two or three times Carol and I have had a few moments' conversation with him, while he was strolling on the Green. I simply can't describe the uncanny feeling I have when with him now. If he was a mysterious person before, he's a million times more so now, and every moment that I'm talking to him I find myself in a panic, for fear those eagle eyes of his will bore into my mind and discover the fact that I know his secret. Of course I don't suppose he realizes for a moment what he said that day he was taken so ill, and certainly he does not dream that the Imp was keen enough to unearth what she did. He is polite and courteous and stilted—and very French—in his manner toward us, and I suppose he no more dreams that we know what we do than he supposes that the sky will fall on him.
One thing is beginning to disturb me very much. It's a suspicion that occurred to the Imp, and that she confided to us a day or two ago. She rather startled Carol and me by suddenly putting this question to us:
"What do you figure out that Monsieur's plans are?"
"How on earth should we know?" said I.
"Well, you must admit that he probably has some, or he wouldn't be dangling around here so long," replied the Imp. "Why shouldn't he tell Louis what he has to tell, and then go away or take Louis away, as the case may be?"
"What do you think, Bobs?" asked Carol. "I'll warrant you have worked it all out."
"If I tell you what I think, you'll tell me I'm a lunatic," declared the Imp. "It does sound rather crazy, and yet why shouldn't it be so?"
"Why shouldn't what be so?" I cried. "You haven't even told us yet."
"Well, here's my notion," she said. "Suppose—well, just suppose that somebody wanted to overthrow the present government of France. Wouldn't this be a lovely chance?"