With Franz von Kreuzenach it was different. He was a humanitarian, and sensitive to all cruelty in life. He hated not the English but the war with real anguish, as she could see by many words he let fall from time to time. He was, she said, a poet, and could see across the frontiers of hatred to all suffering humanity, and so revolted against the endless, futile massacre and the spiritual degradation of civilised peoples. It was only in a veiled way he could say these things, in the presence of his superior officer, but she understood. She understood another thing as time went on--nearly eighteen months all told. She saw, quite clearly, as all women must see in such a case that this young German was in love with her. “He did not speak any word in that way,” said Eileen when she told us this, frankly, in her straight manner of speech, “but in his eyes, in the touch of his hand, in the tones of his voice, I knew that he loved me, and I was very sorry.” “It was a bit awkward,” said Brand, speaking with a strained attempt at being casual. I could see that he was very much moved by that part of the story, and that there was a conflict in his mind. “It made me uneasy and embarrassed,” said Eileen. “I don’t like to be the cause of any man’s suffering, and he was certainly suffering because of me. It was a tragic thing for both of us when I was found out at last.” “What happened?” asked Brand. The thing that happened was simple--and horrible. When Eileen and her companions were denounced by the sentry at the Citadel the case was reported to the Kommandant of the Intelligence office, who was in charge of all anti-espionage business in Lille. He was enormously disturbed by the suspicion directed against Eileen. It seemed to him incredible, at first, that he could have been duped by her. After that, his anger was so violent that he became incapable of any personal action. He ordered Franz von Kreuzenach to arrest Eileen and search her rooms. “If she resist, shoot her at once,” he thundered out. It was at seven o’clock in the evening when Baron Franz von Kreuzenach appeared at Eileen’s door with two soldiers. He was extremely pale and agitated. Eileen rose from her little table, where she was having an evening meal of soup and bread. She knew the moment had come which in imagination she had seen a thousand times. “Come in, Baron!” She spoke with an attempt at cheerfulness, but had to hold to the back of her chair to save herself from falling, and she felt her face become white. He stood for a moment in the room, silently, with the two soldiers behind him, and when he spoke it was in a low voice, in English. “It is my painful duty to arrest you, Miss O’Connor.” She pretended to be amazed, incredulous, but it was, as she knew, a feeble mimicry. “Arrest me? Why, that is--ridiculous! On what charge?” Franz von Kreuzenach looked at her in a pitiful way.