Madame, leaning out of the window, called out peremptorily: "Who goes there?"
But she received no reply. Whoever had arrived at this early hour had gone into the house. Through the dream-like recollections of what she had heard, it seemed to Denise that the voice of Fernande had mingled with that of two men, one of whom might have been old Matthieu.
She rang the bell violently. Then she looked at the clock. It was close on five.
After a few minutes there was a knock at the door, and in response to an impatient "Come in!" it was opened, and Fernande, pale, obviously tired to death, and with dark circles under her eyes, came into the room.
"What is it?" queried Madame, in a voice broken by fatigue and nerve-strain.
"One of the overseers from the armament works, ma tante," replied Fernande, "with a message from M. de Maurel."
"I desire no message from M. de Maurel," said Madame curtly; "let him tell you what he wants and go back the way he came."
"There is another man with him, ma tante," hazarded Fernande, after some hesitation—"one of our people—a prisoner with news of M. de Puisaye."
Madame waited a moment or two, frowning, debating between her pride which prompted her to refuse to see an emissary of de Maurel, and the agony of suspense which was near to killing her. Anxiety gained the victory.