voluble
French, Desiree launched into her story. It was rather incoherent, by
reason, perhaps, of its frankness.

"Stop--stop," he interrupted gravely, "who is Barlasch?"

Louis walked rather slowly in his stiff sea-boots at her side, and she
instinctively spoke less rapidly as she explained the part that Barlasch
had played.

"And you trust him?"

"Of course," she answered.

"But why?"

"Oh, you are so matter-of-fact," she exclaimed; "I do not know. Because
he is trustworthy, I suppose."

She continued the story, but suddenly stopped and looked up at him under
the shadow of her hood.

"You are silent," she said. "Do you know something about my father of
which I am ignorant? Is that it?"

"No," he answered, "I am trying to follow--that is all. You leave so
much to my imagination."

"But I have no time to explain things," she protested. "Every moment
is of value. I will explain all those things some other time. At this
moment all I can think of is my father and the danger he is in. If it
had not been for Barlasch, he would have been in prison by now. And as
it is, the danger is only half averted. For he, himself, is so little
help. All must be done for him. He will do nothing for himself while
this humour is upon him; you understand?"

"Partly," he answered slowly.

"Oh!" she exclaimed half-impatiently, "one sees that you are an
Englishman."

And she found time, even in her hurry, to laugh. For she was young
enough to float buoyant upon that sea of hope which ebbs in the course
of years and leaves men stranded on the hard facts of life.

"You forget," he said in self-defence.

"I forget what?"

"That a week ago I had never seen Dantzig, or your father, or your
sister, or the Frauengasse. A week ago I did not know that there was
anybody called Sebastian in the world--and did not care."

"Yes," she admitted thoughtfully, "I had forgotten that."

And they walked on in silence, a long way, till they came to the Gate of
the Holy Ghost.

"But you can help him to escape?" she said at length, as if following
the course of her own thoughts.

"Yes," he answered, and that was all.

They passed through the smaller streets in silence, and Desiree led the
way into a narrow alley running between the street of the Holy Ghost and
the Frauengasse.

"There is the wall to be climbed," she said; but, as she spoke, the door
giving exit to the alley was cautiously opened by Barlasch.

"A little oil," he whispe