André could not check a start. Had she guessed the truth or was this diabolical coquetry?
“Permit me,” she said softly, and before he could move a finger she had wrenched his cloak asunder. “Ah!” she cried, “I thought so. A hero in the uniform of a Chevau-léger de la Garde with a naked sword and I—a woman—defenceless, alone. You an English officer—you—you!”
She had slipped from his side. The table with the smoking lantern was between them.
“Monsieur le Vicomte de Nérac,” she whispered, “any woman can make a fool of you.”
André slammed the door behind him. “Traitress,” he swore. “Your last hour has come.”
She gazed at him calmly. “Listen,” she said, “listen! Monsieur Spy. To-morrow you will be shot by the English—and the papers”—she laughed—“will still help towards the ruin of France.”
André halted sharply. What was that outside? Horse hoofs in the clearing—two horses! The English officers were here and he was trapped, trapped, as God lived, by a woman who flouted his uniform and himself.
“You will not escape,” he said with set teeth, “and I have the papers.”
“Pooh!” she flicked her cloak in his face.
A loud rapping on the outer door.