"What did you go and see him for?"
"I didn't go. He came to see me."
She looked at me again, if possible, more steadily than before, but without defiance. It was as if she were measuring the extent of my loyalty before she committed herself again to speech.
"Why did he come?" she asked presently.
"He wanted to know if I knew where you were."
"You didn't know," she said.
"I didn't or I wouldn't have lost three days in looking for you. But I made a good shot, anyhow, when I came to Bruges."
Even in her anguish—for she was in anguish—she smiled at the wonder of my shot.
"What made you think of Bruges?"
"I don't know."