“You will wish me God-speed, then?” I questioned.
“Yes—provided, of course,” she added, looking at me searchingly, “that you are free to go.”
“Free to go!” I repeated, and my chin fell on my breast. What instinct was it gave her this power to stab home whenever she chose?
“Then you are not free to go?” she queried, eyeing me still more closely.
“I confess,” I stammered, “that it was not to don a white cockade I left Beaufort.”
“But surely any mere personal matter of business may be put aside when one’s country calls!”
“Alas!” I murmured, “this is not an affair of that nature.”
“Well,” she said coolly, “you must of course decide for yourself, monsieur; more especially since you seem to wish to shroud yourself in a veil of mystery.”
“Mademoiselle,” I said desperately, “I should like your advice.”
“But I understand nothing of the matter.”