After taking one more turn I halted, yawned audibly for the sentry’s benefit, and seated myself once more, this time on a bench by the door of the garage. Van Blarcom’s cigar became stationary again. The chauffeur, who had satisfied himself as to the engine and was now passing critical fingers over the gashes in the tires, looked up at me casually and then resumed his work. Kneeling there, his tools about him, he was plainly visible in the light of the smoky lantern. He was a young man, twenty-three or-four perhaps, strongly built and obviously of French-peasant stock, with honest blue eyes and a face not unduly intelligent, but thoroughly frank and open in the cast. The actors in my drama, I had to own, were puzzling. This lad looked no more fitted than Miss Falconer for a treacherous role. How theatrical it all was! And yet it had its zest. I confess I experienced a certain thrill, entirely new to me, as I bent forward with my arms on my knees and my head lowered to hide my face. “_Attention, Georges!_” I muttered beneath my breath. The chauffeur started, knocking a tool from the running-board beside him. His eyes, half-startled, half-fierce, fixed themselves on me; his hand went toward his pocket in a most significant way. In a minute he would be shooting me, I reflected grimly. And upstairs the very stillness of Van Blarcom shrieked suspicion; he could not have helped hearing the clatter that the falling tool had made. “Don’t be a fool,” I muttered, low, but sharply. “I know where you and mademoiselle come from; I know she is upstairs now; if I wished you any harm I could have had the mayor and the gendarmes here an hour ago! Keep your head--we are being watched. Have a good look at me first if you feel you want to. Then take your hand off that revolver and pretend to go to work.” Throwing my head back, I began blowing clouds of smoke, wondering every instant whether a bullet would whiz through my brain. I could feel Georges’ gaze upon me; I knew it was a critical moment. But as his kind are quick, shrewd judges of caste and character, I had my hopes. They were justified; for presently I heard him draw a breath of relief. His hand came out of his pocket. “Pardon, Monsieur,” he whispered, and began a vigorous pretense of polishing the car. Again I leaned forward to hide the fact that my lips were moving. “When you speak to me, keep your head bent as I do.” “Monsieur, yes.” “Now listen. Men of the French army are here, with powers from the police. They accuse mademoiselle of serious things, of acts of treason, of being on her way to secure papers for the foes of France. They are watching. To-morrow, if she departs, they mean to follow and to arrest her when they have gained proof of what she is hunting.” “_Mon Dieu, Monsieur!_ What shall I do?”