"It is not impossible to exchange a polite word or two when people are busy, is it, mademoiselle?" he asked, laughing and showing a white and perfect set of teeth under a short, dark mustache. She continued to wring out her wash; but there was now a slight smile on her lips. "May I not say who I am?" he asked persuasively. "May I not venture to speak?" "_Mon dieu_, monsieur, there is liberty of speech for all in France. That blackbird might be glad to know your name if you choose to tell him." "But I ask _your_ permission to speak to _you_!" There seemed to be no sense of humour in this young man. She laughed: "I am not curious to hear who you are!... But if it affords you any relief to explain to the west wind what your name may be--" She ended with a disdainful shrug. After a moment she lifted her pretty eyes to his--lovely, provocative, tormenting eyes. But they were studying the stranger closely. He was a powerfully built, dark-skinned young man in the familiar khaki of the American muleteers, wearing their insignia, their cap, their holster and belt, and an extra pouch or wallet, loaded evidently with something heavy. She said, coolly: "You must be one of the new Yankee muleteers who came with that beautiful new herd of mules." He laughed: "Yes, I’m an American muleteer. My name is Charles Braun. I came over in the last transport." "You know Steek?" "Who?" "Steek! Monsieur Steekee Smeete?" "Sticky Smith?" "_Mais oui?_" "I’ve met him," he replied curtly. "And Monsieur Keed Glenn?" "I’ve met Kid Glenn, too. Why?" "They are friends of mine--very intimate friends. Of course," she added, nose up-tilted, "if they are not also _your_ friends, any acquaintance with me will be very difficult for _you_, Monsieur Braun." He laughed easily and seated himself on the grass beside her; and, as he sat down, a metallic clinking sounded in his wallet. "_Tenez_," she remarked, "you carry old iron and bottles about with you, I notice." "Snaffles, curbs and stirrup irons," he replied carelessly. And in the girl’s heart there leaped the swift, fierce flame of certainty in suspicion. "Why do you bring all that ironmongery down here?" she inquired, with frankly childish curiosity, leisurely wringing out her linen. "A mule got away from the corral. I’ve been wandering around in the bushes trying to find him," he explained, so naturally and in such a friendly voice that she raised her eyes to look again at this young gallant who lingered here at the _lavoir_ for the sake of her _beaux yeux_. Could this dark-eyed, smiling youth be a Hun spy? His smooth, boyish features, his crisp short hair and tiny mustache shading lips a trifle too red and overfull did not displease her. In his way he was handsome. His voice, too, was attractive, gaily persuasive, but it was his pronunciation of the letters c and d which had instantly set her on her guard.