"Julie?" he echoed.
"Oui, monsieur," in rapid French. "Mademoiselle Kathleen's maid. Ah, monsieur, for the love you bear her, advise me now. It is for her sake, not for mine."
The Captain eyed her intently. "I don't catch your meaning," he said, in her native tongue.
"You have surely heard, Captain, of the death of that devil,
Spencer"—Behind her veil, the Frenchwoman's eyes sparkled with rage.
"Well, Captain, his death was—justified."
"I have no doubt of it," agreed her companion. "But, in the eyes of the law, it will be termed…."
"Murder." Her white lips barely formed the word, and she glanced fearfully behind her. Her half-conscious action recalled the Captain to their surroundings, and he, too, glanced up the street. Apparently they had it to themselves; in that unfrequented part of the city there were few passers-by. The Captain's eyes narrowed; he preferred never to be conspicuous; a crowded street was more to his liking.
"Suppose we move on," he suggested, but the Frenchwoman held back.
"I have spent all the morning at the moving pictures," she said. "There it is dark. Let us find another."
"Very well; we can talk as we go," and the Captain suited his step to hers. "And suppose also that we confine our remarks to English."
"As monsieur pleases." She half repented her impulsive act. She had intrusted her secret to another. Would that other prove loyal? A faint shiver crept down her spine, and she pressed one mitted hand over the other. "I seek seclusion, monsieur, because—I know too much."