sergeant clearly showed disappointment.

"There's nobody in the house," he said, "or, if he is he's so cleverly
hidden, that we haven't been able to find him--that is so far. Perhaps
Madame here can tell us something."

"I know nothing," she said, "but if I knew anything I would not tell it
to you."

The sergeant smiled sourly, but Dick said:

"We must look again. The man could not have escaped with the guard that
we've set around the house."

The sergeant and his men made another search. They penetrated every
place in which a human being could possibly hide. They thrust their
rifle barrels up the chimneys, and they turned down the bed covers,
but again they found nothing. Dick meanwhile remained as before in the
large room, covertly watching the woman, lest she give a signal to the
rifleman who must be somewhere.

All the while the perfume of the roses was growing stronger and more
penetrating, a light wind that had sprung up bringing it through the open
window. It thrilled Dick in some singular manner, and the strangeness of
the scene heightened its effect. It was like standing in a room in a dim
old castle to which he had been brought as a prisoner, while the terrible
old woman was his jailer. Then the click of the knitting needles brought
him back to the present and reality, but reality itself, despite the
sunshine and the perfume of the roses, was heavy and oppressive.

Dick apparently was looking from the window at the garden, brilliant with
flowers, but in fact he was closely watching the woman out of the corner
of his eye. He had learned to read people by their own eyes, and he
had seen how hers burned when she looked at them. Strength of will and
intent lie in the human eye. Unless it is purposely veiled it tells the
mind and power that are in the brain back of it.

A fear of her crept slowly over him. Perhaps the fear came because,
obviously, she had no fear at all of him, or of Whitley or of the
soldiers. After their short dialogue she had returned to her old
immobility. Neither her body nor her head moved, only her hands, and
the motion was wholly from the wrists. She was one of the three Fates,
knitting steadily and knitting up the destiny of men.

He shook himself. His was a sound and healthy mind, and he would allow
no taint of morbidness to enter it. He knew that there was nothing
supernatural in the world, but he did believe that this woman with the
gray hair, the burning eye