"I love you."
There was a pause. For a moment, an ecstatic, all-too-brief moment, her head rested lightly against his shoulder.
"I shall always have that to remember, to help me," she said, almost in a reflective tone.
"And you—you love me?" asked Fenton. His throat seemed suddenly parched and words came haltingly.
"Yes," whispered Olga, permitting for a moment the pressure of his arm which had stolen about her—but for a moment only. "I love you. And I am glad of it, even if it is wrong that I should."
"I loved you the first time I saw you," he said.
"I am not sure when it really started with me, but it must have been the very first time," said Olga musingly, almost forgetting the tragic realities of her position in the consideration of a problem so thrillingly important. "I knew when I thought you were making love to that other woman. Tell me that you were not."
"Mademoiselle Petrowa!" exclaimed Fenton, with a mirthless laugh. "Of course not. She's a Russian secret service agent and has been working for us. She's wonderful and brave and I admire her a great deal. But——"
It is sometimes possible to convey a clearer meaning by what we don't say than by what we might have said. Fenton's omission was eloquent and convincing.
"I am glad," said Olga, smiling her satisfaction quaintly. "She told me a story to-day that I wanted to believe. And now I do."