accident last night?"

"We read it in the Daily Telegraph," Peter replied.

"It is in all the papers," she continued. "You know that he was a very
dear friend of mine?"

"I have heard so," Peter admitted.

"Yet there was one subject," she insisted, earnestly, "upon which we
never agreed. He hated England. I have always loved it. England was kind
to me when my own country drove me out. I have always felt grateful. It
has been a sorrow to me that in so many of his schemes, in so much of
his work, Bernadine should consider his own country at the expense of
yours."

Sogrange drew a little nearer. It began to be interesting, this.

"I heard the news early this morning by telegram," she went on. "For
a long time I was prostrated. Then early this afternoon I began to
think--one must always think. Bernadine was a dear friend, but things
between us lately have been different, a little strained. Was it his
fault or mine--who can say? Does one tire with the years, I wonder? I
wonder!"

Her eyes were lifted to his and Peter was conscious of the fact that
she wished him to know that they were beautiful. She looked slowly away
again.

"This afternoon, as I sat alone," she proceeded, "I remembered that
in my keeping were many boxes of papers and many letters which have
recently arrived, all belonging to Bernadine. I reflected that there
were certainly some who were in his confidence, and that very soon
they would come from his country and take them all away. And then I
remembered what I owed to England, and how opposed I always was to
Bernadine's schemes, and I thought that the best thing I could do to
show my gratitude would be to place his papers all in the hands of some
Englishman, so that they might do no more harm to the country which has
been kind to me. So I came to you."

Again her eyes were lifted to his and Peter was very sure indeed that
they were wonderfully beautiful. He began to realize the fascination of
this woman, of whom he had heard so much. Her very absence of coloring
was a charm.

"You mean that you have brought me these papers?" he asked.

She shook her head slowly.

"No," she said, "I could not do that. There were too many of them--they
are too heavy, and there are piles of pamphlets--revolutionary
pamphlets, I am afraid--all in French, which I do not understand. No, I
could not bring them to you. But I ordered my motor car and I drove
up here to tell you that if you like to come down to the hou