the noise in the
hall increased. The screen was driven in fragments against the door. I
might be caught at any moment. That would mean ruin. I tried the side
door. It was not locked, and in a moment I found myself outside, in
the garden. I went around to the front of the house, and in a minute
or two secured a cabriolet and was driven home. Then my worst troubles
began. I had acted on impulse. It was wrong. I was a thief. Was it not
wrong? Oh, I know it was wicked! To think, sir, that I should have
done such a thing!'

"When she spoke out in this way," said Merton, "I saw that if we were
to help her, it was essential that we should know whether she was
becoming irresolute. To test her I said: 'But, madame, you could have
given it back to the count next day. You may be sure he would never
have told; and now, poor man, he is in a terrible scrape, and that
unlucky Foreign Office! It is not yet too late. Why not return the
papers?'

"For a moment I felt ashamed, because even before I made this effort
to see if it was worth while to take the grave risks which I saw
before us, I knew that she was sobbing."

"It was worth while. But what," I asked, "did she say?" If Merton had
said that she was weakening, I should have felt some relief and more
disappointment.

He asked in turn, "What do you think she said?"

For my part, I could only reply that it was a question of character,
but that while she might feel regret and express her penitence in
words, a woman who had done what she had done would never express it
in acts.

Merton said, "Thank you," which seemed to me a rather odd reply. He
rose as he spoke and for a moment walked about in silence, and then
said: "By George! Greville, I felt as if I had insulted her. You think
I was right--it is quite a relief." He spoke with an amount of emotion
which appeared to me uncalled for.

"Yes, of course you were right; but what did she say?"

"'Say?' She said: 'I am not a child, sir. I did what I know to be
wrong. I did it for no personal advantage. I am punished when I think
of myself as a thief. I have already suffered otherwise. I do not
care. I did it for my country, as--as you kill men for it. I shall
abide by what I did and may God forgive me! But if you are ashamed--if
you are shocked--if you think--oh, if you fear to assist me, you will
at least consider what I have said as a confidence.' She stood up as
she answered me, and spoke out with entire absence of care about