If she was willing to give up now--to relieve herself of further risk and become merely what she seemed, an ordinary girl worker, in France--why she could tell him. But if she was to go ahead into the greater hazards of which she dreamed, she must go of herself. “I could tell you,” Ruth said, gazing up at Gerry, “that when I was on the street I happened to overhear a conversation which made me sure that he was a spy.” “But it would not be the truth.” “No; not quite.” “I knew so.” She looked down and he saw her suddenly shiver. He put a hand quickly upon her and then the other hand; he held her by her slender shoulders, her round arms quivering under his fingers. His pulses leaped with warm, thrusting waves which seemed to start in his hands holding her and to shake his whole body. “What is it?” he asked. She raised a hand and gently with her fingers, released one hand of his from her shoulder; he removed the other. “What have we done with De Trevenac and the rest?” “They’re in a safe place for further investigation; nothing else, yet.” “But we’re going to?” “Give ’em a trial, of course; and then shoot some of ’em anyway.” “Monsieur de Trevenac?” “Him pretty surely.” A shudder jerked her shoulders together in a spasm; he wanted to still her under his hands; but he did not. He knew why she asked particularly about De Trevenac; she had seen him, heard his voice, perhaps; she could picture him standing blindfolded to be shot--upon her information. He would be her first slain. Gerry had been a bit more brutal in his way of telling her than he had intended; indeed, now he did not understand himself. He had acted upon instinct to torment, rather than spare her, to see how she took it. She raised her head proudly. She’s beautiful, he thought. The poise of that well-shaped head always was pretty; her shoulders, even under the khaki, were pretty; they were well-formed, firm shoulders. His gaze had dropped to them from her eyes; but now went back to her blue eyes again. “Did you ever see--before--a man you had to kill?” she asked. “A few times,” he said. “The first man you killed?” “The first man I ever was certain that I killed was when I was in the foreign legion,” he said. “We were advancing, using bayonets. The Huns weren’t expecting an offensive there; it was the first year after they’d failed in France and were using their best troops in Russia. We found a Landsturm regiment against us--middle-aged men, married mostly, I suppose; fathers. I saw the face of one a second or so before I put my bayonet through him. A couple of times since, maneuvering for position in the air, I’ve got a good glimpse at chaps I was lucky enough to shoot down afterwards. I’d rather have not, you know,” he confessed.