“He has never seen me unmasked.”
There was astonishment and accusation in Durant’s eyes. He looked at her questioningly, and, for a moment, she seemed to turn away in shame. Then she turned back boldly, saying, as if answering the man’s question:
“Yes, it is I. I struck you, Emile Durant. I did so to save this lad.”
She spoke wildly, yet with the utmost confidence, as if it was quite settled between herself and Frank.
Durant squirmed and scowled. It was plain that he longed to speak, and he looked bitter curses from his eyes.
“We are wasting time here,” said Frank. “We must be getting away before others of the band come.”
“You are right,” admitted Mademoiselle Mystere. “We will go. Farewell, Emile. Tell the brotherhood that their secrets are safe with me. Tell them the spy shall never bother them more. In saving one I love I am a traitor, but that is all. My heart is still true to the cause, and I shall pray for its success. Farewell.”
The helpless Frenchman squirmed again, his face furious. He frothed at the mouth, and hoarse gurglings came from his throat. The cords stood out on his neck and temples, and he started up, falling back with a despairing moan.
“It is useless,” declared the masked girl. “Every knot is solid, and you cannot break the cord. You may as well keep still and make the best of it.”
She took up the lamp, and led the way.