"Thank you," he said. And after an instant, "I thought I recognized you when I saw you on entering; now you have spoken, I am certain. Yet--" Allard flushed from throat to temples, the color dying out again to leave even his lips white. But his reply was steadily given. "There is no one here whom you know, monsieur, or who knows you. Even a prison has its courtesies. Turn your head away, and go past," he said. "Would you have done so, finding a friend in such a strait?" "I have no friends." "Then why did you warn me against Dancla, my anarchistic secretary yonder?" The question was unexpected, and left Allard momentarily disconcerted. "Confess we knew each other very well five years ago," the visitor added gently, and paused to consider. A few paces off the official stood stupidly enjoying the respite from exertion; placidly indifferent to an incomprehensible conversation inspired by a whim of the guest. The other three or four men were admiring the view from a window facing the river, and listening to their cicerone. "I wish you would go away, monsieur," Allard said only, when he had recovered perfect command of himself. "Be patient with me yet a moment. We were both avowedly masquerading during those weeks of boyish frolic at Palermo; do you know who I am?" "No more than I knew then: that you were a European, and evidently of position." "You have more liberty than some of those here, I think." "Yes; I am what they call a trusty;" the straight line between the fine brows deepened markedly. "I beg your pardon; I do not ask from curiosity. My yacht is anchored before this place--if I return through here in an hour, on my way to it, can you be here still?" Allard hesitated. "I believe so, but I would prefer not. I can aid you no further; and--" "And?" For an instant the curtain was withdrawn from the prisoner's clear eyes. "You wake what is better asleep. It is not pleasant for me to meet you, monsieur." The visitor caught his breath. It came to him with a shock of realization that many days and nights might pass before he could forget that straight glance of quivering pain and humiliation, of proudly endured hopelessness. "Yet I ask it," he insisted. "Very well. If I am not here it will be because it was not possible." The visitor turned away with well-assumed carelessness. "I fancied your prisoner there was a fellow-countryman," he remarked to the official, in passing on. "But he appears to be French." "Yes, sir. He said he came from the South, at his trial." The man had necessarily kept beside the visitor to reply, and they walked down the room so together. "What is he here for?" came the idle inquiry.