Lucille put these questions to herself as she flew homeward. On the way she met little Mrs. Curtis, and for one moment stopped in response to the other’s gesture. “Is it true?” Mrs. Curtis asked, with a scared look. “They tell me Roy has been arrested. Is it so? My husband could do nothing. The landlady was off before he could speak to her again. He thought that Roy and the Colonel would be coming round directly, and so he waited in. But they did not come. And now two gendarmes are quartered in our lodgings, and Hugh may not stir without their leave. It is horrid! But--Roy?” “I cannot wait! Roy is taken to the citadel! I have to see to his mother! Do not keep me, Madame.” And again Lucille sped homeward. As she had half hoped, half dreaded, she found Mrs. Baron indoors before herself, alone in the salon, and uneasy at Captain Ivor’s absence. “He ought not to have gone out,” she said. “He will be seriously ill if he does not let himself rest. It is Roy’s doing, I suppose--so thoughtless of Roy! I must tell Denham that I will not have him spoil my boy in this way. It is not good for Roy, and Denham will suffer for it. You do not know where he is gone?” “Oui!” faltered Lucille, and Mrs. Baron looked at her. “You have been crying! What is it?” As gently as might be, Lucille broke the news of what had happened; and Mrs. Baron seemed stunned. Roy--her Roy--in the hands of the pitiless gendarmes! Roy imprisoned in the citadel! Lucille made no mention of Bitche; but too many prisoners had been passed on thither for the idea not to occur to Mrs. Baron. “And it was I who brought him to France! It was I who would not let him be sent home when he might have gone! O Roy, Roy!” she moaned. Lucille had hard work to bring any touch of comfort to her. Hour after hour crept by. Once a messenger arrived with a pencil note from Colonel Baron to his wife-- “Do not sit up if we are late. We are doing what we can. I cannot persuade Denham to go back.” Not sit up! Neither Mrs. Baron nor Lucille could dream of doing anything else. This suspense drew them together, and Lucille found herself to be one with the Barons in their trouble. Nine o’clock, ten o’clock, and at length eleven o’clock. Soon after came a sound of footsteps. Not of bounding, boyish steps. No Roy came rushing gaily into the room. Lucille had found fault with him that afternoon for his noisy impulsiveness; but now, from her very heart, she would have welcomed his merry rush. Only Colonel Baron and Ivor entered. The Colonel’s face was heavily overclouded, while Denham’s features were rigid as iron, and entirely without colour. “Roy?” whispered Mrs. Baron. Deep silence answered the unspoken question. Colonel Baron stood with folded arms, gazing at his wife. Denham moved two or three paces away, and rested one arm on the back of a tall chair, as if scarcely able to keep himself upright. “Roy!” repeated Mrs. Baron, her voice sharpened and thinned. “You have not brought--Roy!”