“You have told me,” replied Petite Jeanne, “but you have not told all. Were you the discoverer of these rare colors?”
“I—?” The word came in shocked surprise. “No, it was not I.”
There was a period of silence. Then in a voice raised scarcely above a whisper he said:
“It was my father.”
“Oh!” the little French girl breathed.
“He made these discoveries while serving as an industrial chemist in the Great War,” Danby Force went on after a time. “The war was terrible for him. He was gassed. He did not live many years. There—there’s a library in his town now, a splendid tribute to his memory.
“And I—” he spoke slowly. “I, his only son, have tried to guard his secrets well. But now it seems I am about to fail.”
“But you have not. Not yet?” The little French girl’s tone was eager.
“No, perhaps not yet.”
“Then you shall not!” Petite Jeanne sprang to her feet. “I shall help you. We all can help. This young lady, this stewardess you have told me of, she travels far. She can watch. But tell me,” she demanded eagerly, “tell me of this dark-faced woman. One must know much if one is to be truly helpful.” She sank back into her chair.