“We are nearing Le Cateau, and I must leave you. The men of whom I speak are the Duke Laselli and a detective called Courant. I know they are sent to watch you, and they mean you no good. Be careful, for God's sake, Monsieur, for I—I—want you to win!” She was standing now, and with trembling fingers was adjusting a thick veil over her face.
“Why are you so interested in me?” he asked, sharply. “Why do you want me to win—to win, well, to win the battle?”
“Because—” she began, but checked herself. A deep blush spread over her face just as she dropped the veil.
“The cad!” he said, understanding coming to him like a flash. “There is more than one heart at stake.”
“Good-bye and good luck, Monsieur,” she whispered. He held her hand for an instant as she passed him, then she was gone.
Mile after mile from Le Cateau to Quevy found him puzzling over the odd experience of the night. Suddenly he started and muttered, half aloud:
“By thunder, I remember now! It was she who sat beside him in the carriage this morning!”
VIII. THE FATE OF A LETTER
At Quevy the customs officers went through the train, and Quentin knew that he was in Belgium. For some time he had been weighing in his mind the advisability of searching the train for a glimpse of the duke and his companion, doubtful as to the sincerity of the beautiful and mysterious stranger. It was not until the train reached Mons that he caught sight of the duke. He had started out deliberately at last to hunt for the Italian, and the latter evidently had a similar design. They met on the platform and, though it was quite dark, each recognized the other. The American was on the point of addressing the duke when that gentleman abruptly turned and reentered the train, one coach ahead of that occupied by Quentin, who returned to his compartment and proceeded to awaken the snoring man-servant. Without reserve he confided to Turk the whole story of the night up to that point.