course, but I left there to--to accomplish something. And since poor
Georges can't help me now, I must go on--alone."

CHAPTER XVII

I BURN MY BRIDGES

If I live to be a hundred, and it is not improbable since I am healthy,
I shall never forget that little garden at the inn at Bleau. It was a
vegetable garden too, which is not in itself romantic. I recall vaguely
that there were beds all about us, which in due course would doubtless
sprout into rows of pale green objects--peas and artichokes, or beans
and cabbages maybe; I don't know, I am sure. But then, there was the
stream running just outside the wall of masonry; there was the sky,
flushing with that faint, very delicate, very lovely pink that an early
spring morning brings in France; there was the quaint building, wrapped
up in slumber, beside us; and in the air a silent, fragrant dimness, the
promise of the dawn.

And then there was the girl. I suppose that was the main thing. Not that
I felt sentimental. I should have scouted the notion. If I meant to fall
in love,--which, I should have said, I had no idea of doing,--I would
certainly not begin the process in this unheard-of spot. No; it was
simply that the whole business of caring for Miss Esme Falconer had
suddenly devolved upon my shoulders; and that instead of my feeling
bored, or annoyed, or exasperated at the prospect, my spirits rose
inexplicably to face the need.

Here, if ever, was the time for the questions I had planned last
evening. But I didn't ask them; I knew I should never ask them. In those
few long unforgetable moments when I stood in the gallery and wondered
whether she were living, my point of view had altered. I was through
with suspecting her; I was prepared to laugh at evidence, however
damning. As for the men in the gray car and their detailed accusations,
I didn't give--well, a loud outcry in the infernal regions for them. I
knew the standards of the land they served, and I had seen their work
this morning. If they were French officers, I would do France a service
by going after them with a gun.

The girl had sunk down on the ancient bench beside me. Her eyes, wide
and distressed, yet resolute, went to my heart. Not a figure, I thought
again, for this atmosphere of intrigue and secrecy and danger. Rather a
girl, beautiful, brilliant, spirited, to be shielded from every jostle
of existence; the sort of girl whom men hold it a test of manhood to
protect from even the most passi