“Have you and Sengoun any weapons at all?” she interrupted desperately, “Anything!—A sword cane––?”
“No. What the devil does all this business mean?” he broke out impatiently. “What’s all this menace of lawlessness—this impudent threat of interference––”
“It is war!”
“War?” he repeated, not quite understanding her.
She caught him by the arm:
“War!” she whispered; “War! Do you understand? They don’t care what they do now! They mean to kill you here in this place. They’ll be out of France before anybody finds you.” 368
“Has war actually been declared?” he asked, astounded.
“Tomorrow! It is known in certain circles!” She dropped his arm and clasped her hands and stood there twisting them, white, desperate, looking about her like a hunted thing.
“Why did you do this?” she repeated in an agonised voice. “What can I do? I’m no traitor!... But I’d give you a pistol if I had one––” She checked herself as the girl who had been reading an evening newspaper on a sofa, and to whom Neeland had been talking when Ilse Dumont entered, came sauntering into the room.
The eyes of both women met; both turned a trifle paler. Then Ilse Dumont walked slowly up to the other: