"No, no, mademoiselle"--Kathleen's taut muscles relaxed and she sank weakly back in bed. "But I have reason to believe that Captain Miller is not what he seems. Listen, mademoiselle: I was in M. Foster's touring car--no matter how I came there now--last night. Henry was driving it. He knew not that I was in the tonneau. When he stopped the car and got out I watched him enter a residence in Nineteenth Street. I dared not stay longer in the car, and hid in the vestibule of the house adjoining the one he had entered. They are what you call semi-detached, and concealed I was very close at hand. I had been there but a short time when a man ran up the steps of the next house and I recognized Captain Miller. He entered and I waited long, oh, so long, when out came Henry and Captain Miller ..." "Well?" prompted Kathleen, as Julie came to a breathless pause. "The Captain entered the car with Henry and drove off. After their departure I rang the bell of the house where I was hiding and asked the butler who were their next-door neighbors. He said Baron Frederic von Fincke." "Oh, more evidence against him!" Kathleen drew in her breath sharply. "Mademoiselle?" But Kathleen did not explain her remark, and Julie continued hurriedly; "I at first thought to return here at once, but remembered Marie Tregot. She gave me house room, and I arranged with Vincent last night to admit me after dark today." "But why not come openly, Julie? No one will harm you." "Henry is a spy--a traitor--it did not suit my plans to have him know my whereabouts." "But Julie...." "Mademoiselle, have patience--bear with me but a little longer--" The excited Frenchwoman rose and going to both doors locked them. She returned and switched on the reading lamp. "Quelle horreur! Mademoiselle, what have these beasts done to you?" she exclaimed, aghast, inspecting Kathleen in consternation. "They shall pay for every sign of suffering in your face." "Do not let us discuss me," Kathleen sighed wearily. "Will you tell the police of your suspicions concerning Henry?" "No, mademoiselle." Julie's expression changed. "I like not the police just now. I have a plan of my own." She checked herself abruptly. "Have you seen the _Star_?" "No, Julie." "See, it says here"--pointing to a paragraph in a folded sheet torn from a newspaper which she drew from under her apron--"'Fire at Roebling's Plant of Incendiary Origin.' Tell me, mademoiselle, what is Roebling's?" "A factory near Trenton, New Jersey, which I believe"--Kathleen spoke somewhat uncertainly--"manufactures insulated as well as barbed wire." "Ah, that is used in trench fighting!" The Frenchwoman took from the bodice of her black gown a crumpled telegram singed at the edges. "Henry received this but an hour ago. I watched, oh, so carefully. I saw him turn pale, and such was his haste to leave the house that he did not wait to see that the paper burned when he threw it in the grate. Can you translate it for me, mademoiselle?"