That was all. The interview had not lasted more than five minutes, but Doris knew by the look she had seen on Cyril’s face that danger threatened. The letter had contained a command, a command from a German officer of high rank to Cyril Hammersley--a spy receiving his orders from the government he served. If he had gone back to the Lodge at this moment she would have let him go past her without a word, for the bitterness came back into her heart and engulfed all purpose. She sat in her place of concealment, peering out at him, fascinated. He moved nearer and then stood, his feet braced on the rocks, gazing down the path by which his midnight visitor had disappeared. How long he stood there motionless she could not know, but as the moments passed and he did not move, she rose from her cranny, her trembling nerves seeking an outlet in motion or speech. Why didn’t he move? At last her overtaxed nerves could no longer endure and she came out of the shadow and spoke his name. Still he made no motion, and she realized that her lips had made no sound. But her foot touched a small stone, which fell among the rocks, and she saw him wheel around and face her quickly, something glittering in his hand, while his voice rang sharply. “Stand where you are!” He took a few threatening steps toward her, his look studying her small bulk. “It’s I, Cyril,” she said faintly, “Doris.” “You!” He glanced to right and left, putting the thing in his pocket and faced her, incredulous. “What are you doing here, Doris?” “I came to--to see you again----” His eyes were still searching the darkness around them. “Who told you to come here?” “No one,” she lied. “I followed you.” “Who saw you come? You heard?” “Yes----” slowly. “O Cyril--I can’t let you go from me like this----” She put her face to her hands and felt his arms enfold her. She trembled, but in this weakness a new kind of strength came to her. “I want you to come with me away--away from all this--for me--for England. It’s my last appeal--you must not refuse it. I--I want you so, Cyril, as it used to be.” She felt his lips gently touch her brow and heard his whisper, “God bless you!” She clung to him desperately, to his caress, the one sure symbol of his purity---- “I love you, Cyril,” she murmured, “I can’t help it. I’ve tried not to. But you couldn’t kiss me like this, reverently, if you did not love me well enough to forget everything else. Say you do, dear.” “I love you,” he whispered again. “But you must not stay here. You must----”