"The fact that I have just told you what I know and shall tell no one else, should be one proof," he said. Elise did not answer, but looked at him with a keen expression as if she would read his thoughts. He had a frank, open face, the very plainness of which bespoke the honesty of the man. "Suppose I should say that I came from Hagenhof in Prussia and that I was sent here by friends of your brother who have gone there. Suppose I should say that they wanted you to join them and that I could take you there with little risk to yourselves, would you be inclined to trust me then?" "What risk do we incur by remaining where we are?" inquired Elise, without answering his question. "You will always run the risk of discovery while in France," he replied. "But tell me, are you inclined to trust me?" "Yes," answered Elise, stopping and looking him full in the face. "I am." "Good," he cried, setting down the pail and extending his hand. "I am disposed to trust you," she went on, "but in order to do so fully I should wish to see a letter from the friend you speak of." "It is dangerous to carry such a writing," he replied significantly. "True, but you can mention names." "I can, and will,--names your brother will know well. The Baron von Valdenmeer, for instance. Besides, if I were your enemy I need not come thus secretly. Your enemies can use open means." "I said"--Elise hesitated--"I am disposed to believe you are what you claim to be, but I can do nothing without the consent of my brother." "Good! will you obtain his consent?" "I will try." "Good again. You will succeed. Talk with him and get his consent to leave here. And as soon as possible I will make all the arrangements for the journey so that we may leave in a week or at the latest a fortnight. Then if you have not persuaded your brother that it is for his interest to go with me, I will try and add my arguments to yours." "I trust you will find us ready," said Elise; "but in the mean time shall you remain here?" "No, I must go to Paris," was the Prussian's answer. "If you should have occasion to communicate with me, a word sent to Hector Gaillard, 15 Rue des Mathurins, will reach me. But do not send any word unless it is of the greatest importance, and then employ a messenger whom you can trust." "Is that your name?" asked the woman. "That is my name while in France. Can you remember that and the address?" "I can." "Then good-by. And a word at parting," he said--turning after he had leaped the fence. "It is perhaps needless to caution you, but my advice would be that your brother should not go too often to the village. His hands are too small. Good-by." And he walked off up the lane smoking his short pipe, and whistling gayly. Two days later Gaillard joined his friend Tournay in Paris. He found Tournay much more hopeful than when he had left him, and his spirits rose still more as he heard Gaillard's news.