the tepid depths and drank.

"I was going to offer you some," he said, amused; and over the brimming
cup she smiled back, shuddering.

"If you care to lie down for a few moments I'll move that youngster off
the sofa," he suggested.

But fatigue had vanished; she was terribly awake now.

"Can't you sleep? You are white as death. I'll call you in an hour," he
ventured gently, with that soft quality in his voice which sounded so
terrible in her ears--so dreadful that she sat up in an uncontrollable
tremor of revolt.

"What did you ask me?"

"I thought you might wish to sleep for half an hour----"

Sleep? She shook her head, wondering whether sleep would be more
merciful to her at this time to-morrow--or the next day--or ever again.
And all the time, apparently indifferent and distrait, she was studying
every detail of this man; his lean features, his lean limbs, his thin,
muscular hands, his uniform, the slim, light sabre which he balanced
with both hands across his angular knees; the spurred boots, well
groomed and well fitted; the polished cross-straps supporting field
glasses and holster.

"Are you the famous Special Messenger?--if it is not a military
indiscretion to name you," he asked, with a glint of humor in his
pleasant eyes. It seemed to her as though something else glimmered
there, too--the faintest flash of amused recklessness, as though gayly
daring any destiny that might menace. He was younger than she had
thought, and it sickened her to realize that he was quite as amiably
conscious of her as any well-bred man may be who permits himself to
recognize the charm of an attractive woman. All at once a deathly
feeling came over her--faintness, which passed--repugnance, which gave
birth to a desperate hope. The hope flickered; only the momentary
necessity for self-persuasion kept it alive. She must give him every
chance; she must take from him none. Not that for one instant she was
afraid of herself--of failing in duty; she understood that she _could_
not. But she had not expected this moment to come in such a fashion. No;
there was more for her to do, a chance--barely a miracle of chance--that
she might be mistaken.

"Why do you think I am the Special Messenger, Captain West?"

There was no sign of inward tumult under her smooth, flushed mask as she
lay back, elbows set on the chair's padded arms, hands clasped together.
Over them she gazed serenely at the signal officer. And he looked back
at her.