hered some further data. He was
a sick man and he had recently been wounded; at present he was keeping
up by sheer courage, not by strength. His lips were pressed in a
straight line, his eyes were shadowed, and his pallor was ghastly.
Finally, he was wearing his left arm in a sling across his breast.

"Monsieur," he now enunciated clearly, "will raise both hands and keep
them lifted. Monsieur sees, doubtless, that I am in no state for a
wrestling-match. For that very reason he must take all pains not to
forget himself--for should he stir, however slightly, I grieve to say
that I must shoot."

The casualness of his tones made Blenheim's menaces seem childish and
futile. I had not the slightest doubt that he would keep his word. Yet,
without any reason whatever, I liked him and I had no fear of him; I did
not feel for a single instant that Miss Falconer was in danger; she was
as safe with him, I knew instinctively, as she was with me.

I opened my lips to parley, but found myself interrupted. A cry came
from behind me, a low, utterly rapturous cry. I was thrust aside, and
saw the girl spring past me. An instant later she was by the stranger,
kneeling, with her arms about him and her bright head against his cheek.

"Jean! Dear Jean!" she was crying between tears and laughter. "We
thought you were dead! We thought you were never coming back to
Raincy-la-Tour!"

It seemed to me that some one had struck my head a stunning blow. For an
interval I stood dazed; then, painfully, my brain stirred. Things went
dancing across it like sharp, stabbing little flames, guesses, memories,
scraps of talk I had heard, items I had read; but they were scattered,
without cohesion; like will-o'-the-wisps, they could not be seized.

There was a young man, a noble of France, who had been a hero. I had
read of him in a certain extra, as my steamer left New York. He
had disappeared. Certain papers had vanished with him. He had been
suspected, because it was known that the Germans wanted those special
documents. All the world, I thought dully, seemed to be hunting papers;
the French, the Germans, Miss Falconer, and I.

Once more I looked at the man on the chest. He had dropped his pistol
and was clasping the girl to him, soothing her, stroking her hair. My
brain began to work more rapidly. The little flashes of light seemed to
run together, to crystallize into a whole. I knew.

Jean-Herve-Marie-Olivier, the Duke of Raincy-la-Tour, the Firefl