can't tell you that." My tone was grim; there were so many
things about this matter that I couldn't tell.

Her eyes flashed for an instant.

"But how cowardly, how cruel! He never hurt anyone; he was just like a
good watchdog, the truest, most faithful soul! If they killed him they
did it for some deliberate purpose. And when I think that I brought him
here--oh, oh, Mr. Bayne--"

"Yes," I broke in hastily; "I should like to see them boil in oil or fry
on gridirons or something of the sort, myself. But this is very serious;
we must keep calm, Miss Falconer. And I know you are going to help me.
You have such splendid self-control."

Though there were sobs in her throat, she pressed her hands to her lips
and stifled them. Only her pallor and her wet lashes showed the horror
and grief she felt. I wanted desperately to comfort her, but there
was no time for it; and besides, who ever heard of a leather-coated
comforter in a kitchen garden at 5 A.M.?

"What I wanted to speak about," I went on rapidly, "was our plans. This
may prove a rather nasty mess, I'm sorry to say. The French police, you
know, are--well, they're capable and very thorough; and since you are
here at the scene of a murder in an _infirmiere's_ costume, they will
never rest till they have seen your papers, learned your errand, asked
you a hundred things. Unless your replies are absolutely satisfactory,
the whole business will be--er--awkward for you. That is why I put on
these togs. Yes, I know it is ghastly," I owned as she shuddered. "And
that is why I want to beg you, very seriously indeed, to let me drive
you back to Paris and put you under your friends' protection. After
that, of course, I'll return here to see the thing through and give my
testimony about it all."

It was not going to be so simple, the course I had outlined airily. When
I visioned myself explaining to a French _commissaire_ why I had come to
Bleau at all; why I had set up a false claim to be an artist,--for that
circumstance was sure to leak out and look darkly incriminating,--and
what had inspired me to take a murdered man's clothes and conceal his
body, I can't pretend that I felt much zest. Still, if the police and
the girl came together, worse would follow, I was certain; and it seemed
like a real catastrophe when she slowly shook her head.

"I can't," she murmured. "Oh, it's kind of you, and I'm sorry; but I
can't go back to Paris--not yet, Mr. Bayne. You won't understand, of