I went to the door, and standing so that I could still keep an eye upon the room, I called the corporal. "You will search the house thoroughly," I said, "and quickly. Bring me word how many people you find in it. You, mademoiselle, will remain in the room with us." She shrugged her shoulders as I closed the door and came back into the room. "You were wounded, monsieur," I said to the Frenchman. "Where?" "In the sortie on Le Bourget." "And you came here the moment you were released on your parole?" The wounded officer turned with a smile to Mademoiselle Sophie. "Yes, for here live my best friends." He took her hand, and with a Frenchman's grace he raised it to his lips and kissed it. And I was suddenly made acquainted with the relationship in which these two, youth and maid, stood to one another. Mademoiselle Sophie had cried out on the steps against the possibility that I might have come to claim my prisoner. But though she spoke no word, she was still more explicit now. With the officer that caress was plainly no more than a pretty way of saying thanks; it had the look of a habit, it was so neatly given, and he gave it without carelessness, it is true, but without warmth. She, however, received it very differently. He did not see, because his head was bent above her hand, but I did. I saw the look of pain in her face, the slight contraction of her shoulders and arms, as if to meet a blow. The kiss hurt her--no, not the kiss, but the finished grace with which it was given, the proof, in a word, that it was a way of saying "Thanks"--and nothing more. Here was a woman who loved and a man who did not love, and the woman knew. So much was evident to me who looked on, but when the officer raised his head there was nothing for him to see, and upon her lips only the conventional remark: "We should have been hurt if you had not come." I resumed my questions: "Your doctor, monsieur, is in the house?" "At this hour? No." "Ah. That is a pity." The young man lifted his head from his pillow and looked me over from head to foot with a stare of disdain. "I do not quite understand. You doubt my word, monsieur?" "Why not?" I asked sharply. It was quite possible that the cradle, this rug across his legs, the pillow, were all pretences. Many a soldier in those days was pale and worn and had sunken eyes, and yet was sound of limb and could do a day's work of twenty-four hours if there were need. I had my theory and as yet I had come upon nothing to disprove it. This young officer might very well have brought in a cipher message to the Chateau Villetaneuse. Mademoiselle Sophie might very well have waved her lantern at the door to summon a fresh messenger. "No; why should I not doubt your word?" I repeated.