"As you please, Monsieur," he exclaimed. "And in that case you may have some explaining to do yourself. When you heard our story the other night you never said a word about coming to the château, and yet I'll wager you're the very man who moved this chair—who carried the light that my friend saw at the window. I dare you to deny it."
The vehemence of the American's manner, the high pitch of his voice, the light which gleamed in his eye seemed to rouse the other to a greater degree of wrath.
"Who are you, that you should interrogate me?" he demanded harshly. "Why are you not at your post? The road, I believe, was shelled this morning. Every car and the services of every man belonging to the ambulance corps must be imperatively required in such an emergency; and yet you are here—why? I have strong suspicions, indeed, that you are a——"
"Say it!" blurted out Chase, savagely. "Just say it!"
Perhaps there had never been a more dramatic moment in the history of the Château de Morancourt. Standing only a few feet apart, the two faced each other as if ready to begin a most desperate battle. The soldier's insinuation had touched Chase Manning to the quick. It was insupportable—something that he could not and would not stand. Though the word was never uttered it seemed to ring in his ears—"deserter!—deserter!"
"Take that back and apologize!" shouted Chase, "or—or——"
He got no further.
A quick movement on the part of the poilu—a sudden raising of an arm—then Chase discovered the muzzle of a revolver on the level of his eyes.
With a cry of alarm, he stepped back. Never before had he so forcibly realized how ugly and dangerous a revolver can look. As though fascinated, he stood staring at the muzzle, which gleamed and sparkled in the rays of his flash-light.
"I take nothing back," answered the other, firmly. "And, furthermore, Monsieur, I order you to leave at once. Delays are dangerous. Go—go, I say!"