"My thanks——"
"I tell you you owe me nothing. Let it rest so!"
Her unfriendly eyes warned me to silence, but I said bluntly:
"That Mr. Cunningham is not this moment fiddling with my neck, I owe to you. I offer my thanks, and I remain at your service. That is all."
"Do you think," she answered quietly, "that a rebel hanged could interest me unless that hanging smirched my kin?"
"Elsin! Elsin!" I said, "is there not bitterness enough in the world but you and I must turn our friendship into hate?"
"What do you care whether it turn to hate or—love?" She laughed, but there was no mirth in her eyes. "You are free; you have done your duty; your brother rebels will reward you. What further have I to do with you, Mr. Renault? You have used me, you have used my kin, my friends. Not that I blame you—nay, Mr. Renault, I admire, I applaud, I understand more than you think. I even count him brave who can go out as you have done, scornful of life, pitiless of friendships formed, reckless of pleasure, of what men call their code of honor; indifferent to the shameful death that hovers like a shadow, and the scorn of all, even of friends—for a spy has no friends, if discovered. All this, sir, I comprehend, spite of my few years which once—when we were friends—you in your older wisdom found amusing." She turned sharply away, brushing her eyelashes with gloved fingers.
Presently she looked straight ahead again, a set smile on her tight lips.
"The puppets in New York danced to the tune you whistled," she said, "and because you danced, too, they never understood that you were master of the show. Oh, we all enjoyed the dance, sir—I, too, serving your designs as all served. Now you have done with us, and it remains for us to make our exits as gracefully as may be."
She made a little salute with her riding-whip—gracious, quite free of mockery.