She went downstairs, conscious of gripping herself in order to discuss with the officers whatever business of billeting was in hand. For she had dealt with all such matters since her arrival in Frélus. She reached the front door and saw a dusty car with a military chauffeur at the wheel and two officers, standing on the pavement at the foot of the steps. One she recognized as the commander of the company to which her billeted men belonged. The other was a stranger, a lieutenant, with a different badge on his cap. They were talking and laughing together, like old friends newly met, which by one of the myriad coincidences of the war was really the case. On the appearance of Jeanne they drew themselves up and saluted politely.
“Mademoiselle Bossière?”
“Oui, monsieur.” Then, “Will you enter, messieurs?”
They entered the vestibule where the great cask gleamed in its polished mahogany and brass. She bade them be seated.
“Mademoiselle, Captain Willoughby tells me that you had billeted here last week a soldier by the name of Trevor,” said the stranger, in excellent French, taking out notebook and pencil.
Jeanne’s lips grew white. She had not suspected their errand.
“Oui, monsieur.”
“Did you have much talk with him?”
“Much, monsieur.”
“Pardon my indiscretion, mademoiselle—it is military service, and I am an Intelligence officer—but did you tell him about your private affairs?”