Below lay the flagstones and potted flowers of the garden terrace, not more than twenty-five feet, he thought. Beyond these, the grass sloped down to the Récollette, where rowboats still floated under the trees.
Reconnoitering, he could not discover a soul in sight, and, satisfied, he crept back to where Philippa stood.
As he looked up at her, a faint smile touched the girl's bruised lips, and her steady grey eyes seemed to say: "Me voici, mon ami, toujours à vos ordres!"
"We must try to leave by the window," he whispered. "Both doors are guarded. And this man means murder—for you, anyway——"
"Yes.... It does not matter much now.... Since I have seen you again."
"You dear child—you dear, brave little thing!"
"Oh, mon ami—if you truly are content with me——"
"Little comrade, you have been very wonderful and very true! Halkett has recovered his papers.... Can you imagine how I felt when that murderous brute struck you!"
"It was nothing—I don't care, now——" She looked at his face, extended one finger along the wall, and touched his arm, trying to smile with her disfigured lips.
He looked at her very intently for a moment, unsmiling. Then: