mysterious smile. "Who do you suppose it was with?..."
Ferragut shrugged his shoulders. And, noting his indifference, the old
man could not keep the secret any longer.

"The lady-bird!" he added. "That handsome, perfumed lady-bird that used
to come to see you.... The one from Naples.... The one from
Barcelona...." The captain turned pale, first with surprise and then
with anger. Freya in Brest!... Her spy work was reaching even here?...

Caragol went on with his story. He was returning to the ship, and she,
who was walking through the _rue de Siam,_ had recognized him, speaking
to him affectionately.

"She asked to be remembered to you.... She has been informed that no
foreigner can come aboard. She told me that she had tried to come to
see you."

The cook began a search through his pockets, extricating a bit of
wrinkled paper, a white sheet snatched from an old letter.

"She also gave me this paper, written right there in the street with a
lead pencil. You will know what it says. I did not wish to look at it."

Ferragut, on taking the paper, recognized immediately her handwriting,
although uneven, nervous and scribbled with great precipitation. Six
words, no more:--"Farewell, I am going to die."

"Lies! Always lies!" said the voice of prudence in his brain.

He tore up the paper and passed the rest of the morning very much
preoccupied.... It was his duty to defend himself against this
espionage that had even established its base in a port of war.... Every
boat anchored near the _Mare Nostrum_ was menaced by Freya's power to
give information. Who knew but what her mysterious communications would
bring about their attack by a submarine on going out from the roadstead
of Brest!...

His first impulse was to denounce her. Then he repented because of his
absurd scruples of chivalry.... Besides, he would have to explain his
past to the head officers at Brest who knew him very slightly. He was
far from that naval captain at Salonica who had so well understood his
passional errors.

He wished to watch her for himself, and in the evening he went ashore.
He detested Brest as one of the dullest cities of the Atlantic. It was
always raining there, and there was no diversion except the eternal
promenade through the _rue de Siam_, or a bored stay in the cafes full
of seamen and English and Portuguese land-officers.

He went through the public establishments night and day; he made
investigations in the hotels; he hired ca