Ruth went in. If it was George Byrne, at least then he was alive and now strong again. The lamp in the little salon had been lit; and a tall, uniformed figure arose from beside it. “Hello, Cynthia,” a familiar voice greeted. Gerry Hull’s voice! Ruth retreated a little and held to the door to support her in her relaxation of relief. A hundred times during this terrible week, Ruth had wanted to send for him. “I’m so glad to see you, Gerry.” “That’s good.” His tall, lithe self was beside her; his strong, steady fingers grasped her arm and gently supported her when she let go the door. He closed the door and led her to a chair where the light of the lamp would fall full upon her. “Sit down there,” he commanded kindly; and, when she obeyed, he seated himself opposite pulling his chair closer the better to observe her but at the same time bringing himself under the light. He had changed a great deal since last she saw him, Ruth thought. No; she corrected herself, not so much since she had parted from him after the retreat from Picardy; but he had altered greatly since last he sat opposite her in this little salon at that time they talked together about De Trevenac. The boy he had been when she first saw him on the streets of Chicago; the boy he had been when he had spoken at Mrs. Corliss’, had been maturing with marvelous swiftness in these last weeks into a man. His eyes showed it--his fine, impulsive, determined eyes, no less resolute and not less impatient, really, but somehow a little more tolerant and understanding than they had been. His lips showed it--thinner a trifle and a trifle more drawn and straight though they seemed to smile quite as easily. His whole bearing betrayed, not so much an abandonment of creeds he had lived by, as a doubt of their total sufficiency and the unsettledness which comes to one beginning to grasp something new. “You’ve changed a good deal,” Ruth offered audibly. “I was thinking that about you,” Gerry said. “I guess--I guess we’ve changed some--together.” “I guess so.” She sat without response. Someone neared the door and Ruth roused and, forgetting Gerry for an instant, she listened in covert alarm in a manner which had become so habitual to her these last days that she was not aware of it until he noticed it. The step passed the door; and Ruth settled back. “Well, Cynthia,” Gerry asked her directly then, “what have you been up to?” “What do you mean?” “I was going to come to Paris to see you next week,” Gerry said. “But something particular came up yesterday to make me manage this today. I shouldn’t tell you, I suppose; in fact I know I shouldn’t. The intelligence people have been poking about inquiring about you.” Ruth felt herself growing pale but she asked steadily enough, “Where?” “Where I was for one place.” “They asked you about me?” He nodded. “They asked Agnes Ertyle, too.” “Why?” “That’s what I came here to find out. What’re you up to now?”