“You are unjust to the English,” he protested. Ah! that surely was a stroke of genius.
“I know them, the English,” she said without looking round.
Dead silence broken only by the wheezy puffs of the bellows. Pity, fear, astonishment, and a burning curiosity wrestled in André’s breast. Was this masked girl flesh and blood or a devil in human form?
“Do you want the papers back?” he demanded.
“They are not mine to ask. I was told to give them to you; keep them.”
The icy contempt in her voice stung him. If it had not been for France he would have flung them at her and then strangled her on the spot.
“Before I wish you good-night,” he said after a pause, “will you do me the honour to remove your mask?”
“Why?” She wheeled slowly, still on her knees.
“Why does even an English officer ask a woman to do such a thing?”
She rose and came close to him. “I will take off my mask with pleasure,” she said, “if you, sir, will do me the honour to take off your cloak and share my supper.”