His distraught mind, flashing its S.O.S. signals across the sea, must have stirred the rest of those who slumbered safely in that lamppost-lit, policeman-guarded isle. For influence began its wire-pulling work, its efforts resulting in the promise of the special train that was to convey certain refugees homewards by way of neutral territory.
To-morrow would be the day.
‘I am going home—to-morrow!’
He silently repeated the words with a thrill of joyful anticipation, fingering his papers and passport the while, to assure himself of their truth. Thus fortified, he nerved himself for another question.
‘By the way, madame, speaking of poor M. Lemoine. Who—who gave information?’
‘A woman betrayed him.’
Involuntarily, Quality started. He had not before noticed the grating rasp of madame’s voice. It irritated him to unreasonable resentment and disgust.
‘A woman? Damnable!’
‘Plaît-il?’ Madame raised her brows in interrogation. ‘But why? M. Lemoine sold his secrets for gold. The woman sold her secret for gold. C’est égal!’
How furiously her needles flew! In just such manner must her forbears have sat, knitting and counting in the blood-sodden days of the Revolution.