"DESERTER!"
Chase Manning, in the great apartment of the Château de Morancourt, was most unpleasantly startled—even alarmed. Who was this man? What was he doing there? Where had he been while Chase slept peacefully in the chair?
The mind under stress works rapidly, and all sorts of conjectures flashed through his brain. Presently the man entered the room, the rays from a flash-light in his hand sending streaks of light jumping here and there in the most erratic fashion.
And still Chase Manning stood immovable. He was wrestling with his nerves, and obtaining control over them by slow degrees. Perhaps the stranger would pass through the room without discovering his presence.
And just as he was devoutly hoping that such might be the case the little stream of light switched abruptly from its course and darted straight toward him.
Chase Manning, with a gasp of dismay, found the rays of the instrument directly in his eyes.
The man recoiled, uttering at the same time a curious, half-stifled cry. He had evidently been terribly startled. The flash-light quivered and shook, and the illumination, swinging off from Chase, struck the wall behind him.
But in an instant it was again turned in his direction, and the man, with a loud, angry exclamation, stepped hastily forward.
"Who are you?" he cried, in a voice which, though it showed the effects of his scare, rang throughout the room.
His menacing attitude, his aggressive action and the tone in which he spoke made Chase Manning fall warily back. Face to face with an actuality, however, his nervousness departed. He felt, too, a touch of anger beginning to surge within him. Instead of immediately replying, therefore, he jerked out his own flash-light, and instantly a whitish glare fell squarely upon his interrogator's face.