Mme. Rozel, however, veiled those eyes again and said very little, and after a time Grain d'Orge rose, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, crossed himself, muttered a prayer, and announced that he was going out to watch the roads and would not be back till morning. But La Vireville still sat on at the table, the lamplight beating full on his own lean, strongly-marked features, with their look of humour and daring, on the cleft in his determined chin, and on his dark hair, clubbed and ribboned indeed, but somewhat disordered from the sea-wind. Yet it was curiosity, not hunger, which kept him there, his half-emptied glass between his fingers, engaging his hostess in talk almost perceptibly against her will. Her replies were very brief, and at first he himself made wary conversational moves; for though he really placed almost absolute reliance on Grain d'Orge's knowledge and discretion in a matter of this kind, yet there existed always in this business, a need for caution, and there was just the hundredth part of a chance that she was not, after all, what that astute old Chouan asserted her to be--the agent de la correspondance. But Mme. Rozel's prudence, if anything, exceeded his own; indeed, after a little fencing on both sides it began to seem to La Vireville that she was--necessary circumspection apart--a trifle hostile to him. Possibly she, on her side, felt that he might not be what Grain d'Orge, when he made arrangements for her to receive him, had given him out to be. And yet, from the trend of their guarded converse, it seemed rather that she tacitly resented his coming to take the dead leader's place--for so much she allowed him to gather that she knew of his purpose. But why should she resent it? He suddenly fired a direct question at her. "Have you any reason to believe, Madame, that the death of the late M. Alexis was due to anything other than the fortunes of war? I have heard a rumour of treachery. It is true, at any rate, is it not, that he was surprised?" He saw the swift colour rush over her face, and flee in an instant, leaving her ivory pallor still more pale. Instead of answering him she got up, and took the remains of the loaf to put away in the press against the wall--a pretext, the questioner was sure, to withdraw her face from his further observation. "Yes, he was surprised," she said in a low voice, her back to him. "He was sitting at table in the farm. It was all over very suddenly. He was . . . he was shot through the head. He did not suffer. . . . O my God," she burst out suddenly, "if only I _knew_ whether it was treachery or no--and if so, whose!"