She came close to him, and laid her hand upon his shoulder.
"Don't be foolish, Andrew!" she said softly.
His whole expression changed. The bitterness left his tone.
"Ah, Phyllis!" he said. "That is more like yourself."
"And I want you," she said, "to be like your old self. You have always been my best friend, Andrew. I hope you will always be that."
He tried to look into her face. It seemed to him that there was a little unnecessary emphasis in her words.
"I am not a child now, you know," she continued. "I am quite old enough to take care of myself. You must believe that, Andrew. You must go away, and not worry about me. You will do this, please, because I ask you!"
"If I must," he said reluctantly. "I will go away, but not to worry about you—that is impossible. You seem to be surrounded by all the mediæval terrors which confronted the emancipation of princesses in our fairy books. Only a short time ago Duncombe implored me to follow his example, and leave you and Paris alone. The detective whom I brought with me has been shadowed ever since we left Paris. Last night he left me for a few hours, and this morning comes a note from the hospital. He is lying there with the back of his head beaten in—garotters, of course, the police say, looking for plunder. How can you ask me to be easy in my mind about you?"
She smiled reassuringly.
"No harm will come to me here, I can promise you," she said. "It is you who run the most risk if you only knew it. Sir George Duncombe gave you the best advice when he tried to get you to return to England."