She made a grimace at the hand that he had released.
"Such a cold little kiss!" she smiled. "What has come over you, mon Philippe? A few days ago you were so different. I had begun to hope that you cared as--as I do. Have I grown ugly because of my wound? Or was your devotion only a means to an end--the rescue of Fräulein Korasov?"
"Zoya, what's the use. You know----"
"I am no fool, mon vieux," she went on coolly. "I have a seventh sense. Fräulein Korasov--she is very pretty. You are her D'Artagnan. You play the hero in the piece. You rescue her--she adores you----"
She waved a hand in protest as he began to speak.
"Oh, I have eyes in my head. And you, mon Philippe, you are filled with pity--beauty in distress--you care for her a little, perhaps, and you forget your great pact of loyalty and friendship with Zoya Rochal----"
"It is not true----"
"You send her away with Matthias Markov and the money of Nemi. What do you know of the honesty of Matthias Markov or of her? And you keep me here to be taken by General Graf von Stromberg and to be shot perhaps against a wall."
"There was nothing else to do. You were in no condition----"
"Ah, yes, but you might at least have given me the privilege of your confidences."