The stranger leaned wearily against the arbor, panting, and even in the dusk they could see that he was young and very ragged, and with the whiteness of fear and apprehension in his face and his staring eyes.
"You German? French?" he panted.
"We are French," said Florette, rising. "I can speak ze Anglaise a leetle."
"You are not German?" the visitor repeated as if relieved.
"Only we are Zherman subjects, yess. Our name ees Leteur."
"I am—American. My name—is Tom Slade. I escaped from the prison across there. My—my pal escaped with me——"
The girl looked pityingly at him and shook her head while her parents listened curiously. "We are sorry," she said, "so sorry; but you were not wise to escape. We cannot shelter you. We are suspect already."
"I have brought you news of Armand," said Tom. "I can't—can't talk. We ran——Here, take this. He—he gave it to me—on the ship."
He handed Florette a little iron button, which she took with a trembling hand, watching him as he clutched the arbor post.
"From Armand? You know heem?" she asked, amazed. "You are American?"