e has not had time to go to barracks," said Kent.

"No. Possibly he has forgotten something. Before he arrives, I want to
show you the nest I have made for you, Jeems. Come quickly!"

It was her first intimation that he was not to remain in her room, a
possibility that had already caused him some inward embarrassment. She
seized a number of matches, turned down her light, and hurried into the
hall. Kent followed her to the end of this hall, where she paused
before a low half-door that apparently opened into some sort of a space
close under the sloping roof of the bungalow.

"It is an old storeroom," she whispered. "I have made it quite
comfortable, I think. I have covered the window, so you may light the
lamp. But you must see that no light shows under this door. Lock it on
the inside, and be very quiet. For whatever you find in there you must
thank M'sieu Fingers."

She pulled the door slightly open and gave him the matches. The
illumination in the lower hall made its way only dimly to where they
stood. In the gloom he found himself close to the soft glow of her
eyes. His fingers closed about her hand as he took the matches.

"Marette, you believe me?" he entreated. "You believe that I love you,
that I didn't kill John Barkley, that I am going to fight for you as
long as God gives me breath to fight?"

For a moment there was silence. Her hand withdrew gently from his.

"Yes, I think that I believe. Good-night, Jeems."

She went from him quickly. At her door she turned. "Go in now, please,"
she called back softly. "If you care as you say you do, go IN."

She did not wait for his reply. Her own door closed behind her, and
Kent, striking a match, stooped low and entered his hiding-place. In a
moment he saw directly ahead of him a lamp on a box. He lighted this,
and his first movement then was to close the door and turn the key that
was in the lock. After that he looked about him. The storeroom was not
more than ten feet square, and the roof was so close over his head that
he could not stand upright. It was not the smallness of the place that
struck him first, but the preparations which Marette had made for him.
In a corner was a bed of blankets, and the rough floor of the place was
carpeted with blankets, except for a two-or-three-foot space around the
edge of it. Beyond the box was a table and a chair, and it was the
burden of this table that made his pulse jump quickest. Marette had not
forgotten that he might