“This is a filthy place,” said the hysterical girl. “I think they’re going to drown us all . . . or that thing will explode”—she pointed to the green baize box—“I know it! I feel it in my blood. That beast Gurther is here somewhere, ugh! He’s like a slimy snake. Have you ever seen him?” “Gurther? You mean the man who danced with me?” “That’s he. I keep telling you who he is,” said Joan impatiently. “I wish we could get out of here.” She jumped up suddenly. “Come and see if you can help me lift the trap.” Mirabelle knew it was useless before she set forth on the quest for freedom. Their united efforts failed to move the stone, and Joan was on the point of collapse when they came back to their sleeping-room. “I hope Gurther doesn’t know that those men are friends of yours,” she said, when she became calmer. “You told me that yesterday. Would that make any difference?” “A whole lot,” said Joan vehemently. “He’s got the blood of a fish, that man! There’s nothing he wouldn’t do. Monty ought to be flogged for leaving us here at his mercy. I’m not scared of Oberzohn—he’s old. But the other fellow dopes, and goes stark, staring mad at times. Monty told me one night that he was” she choked—“a killer. He said that these German criminals who kill people are never satisfied with one murder, they go on and on until they’ve got twenty or thirty! He says that the German prisons are filled with men who have the murder habit.” “He was probably trying to frighten you.” “Why should he?” said the girl, with unreasonable anger. “And leave him alone! Monty is the best in the world. I adore the ground he walks on!” Very wisely, Mirabelle did not attempt to traverse this view. It was only when her companion had these hysterical fits that fear was communicated to her. Her faith was completely and whole-heartedly centred on the three men—upon Gonsalez. She wondered how old he was. Sometimes he looked quite young, at others an elderly man. It was difficult to remember his face; he owed so much to his expression, the smile in his eyes, to the strange, boyish eagerness of gesture and action which accompanied his speech. She could not quite understand herself; why was she always thinking of Gonsalez, as a maid might think of a lover? She went red at the thought. He seemed so apart, so aloof from the ordinary influences of women. Suppose she had committed some great crime and had escaped the vigilance of the law, would he hunt her down in the same remorseless, eager way, planning to cut off every avenue of her escape until he shepherded her into a prison cell? It was a horrible thought, and she screwed up her eyes tight to blot out the mental picture she had made.