secrets and not pay for them.”
“You are unjust to the English,” he protested. Ah! that surely was a stroke of genius.
“I know them, the English,” she said without looking round.
Dead silence broken only by the wheezy puffs of the bellows. Pity, fear, astonishment, and a burning curiosity wrestled in André’s breast. Was this masked girl flesh and blood or a devil in human form?
“Do you want the papers back?” he demanded.
“They are not mine to ask. I was told to give them to you; keep them.”
The icy contempt in her voice stung him. If it had not been for France he would have flung them at her and then strangled her on the spot.
“Before I wish you good-night,” he said after a pause, “will you do me the honour to remove your mask?”
“Why?” She wheeled slowly, still on her knees.
“Why does even an English officer ask a woman to do such a thing?”
She rose and came close to him. “I will take off my mask with pleasure,” she said, “if you, sir, will do me the honour to take off your cloak and share my supper.”
André could not check a start. Had she guessed the truth or was this diabolical coquetry?
“Permit me,” she said softly, and before he could move a finger she had wrenched his cloak asunder. “Ah!” she cried, “I thought so. A hero in the uniform of a Chevau-léger de la Garde with a naked sword and I--a woman--defenceless, alone. You an English officer--you--you!”
She had slipped from his side. The table with the smoking lantern was between them.
“Monsieur le Vicomte de Nérac,” she whispered, “any woman can make a fool of you.”
André slammed the door behind him. “Traitress,” he swore. “Your last hour has come.”
She gazed at him calmly. “Listen,” she said, “listen! Monsieur Spy. To-morrow you will be shot by the English--and the papers”--she laughed--“will still help towards the ruin of France.”
André halted sharply. What was that outside? Horse hoofs in the clearing--two horses! The English officers were here, and he was trapped, trapped, as God lived, by a woman who flouted his uniform and himself.
“You will not escape,” he said with set teeth, “and I have the papers.”
“Pooh!” she flicked her cloak in his face.
A loud rapping on the outer door.
“Enter,” she called. “Enter, Captain Statham, the door is not bolted.”
Captain Statham! They had met again and not in the salon of a woman of pleasure. André laughed aloud.
The latch was being lifted. It was now or never. Twisting his cloak round his left arm as the Spaniard does in a duel with knives, in a trice André, sword in hand, was over the table with the spring of a cat. When he had punished this traitress he would deal with Captain Statham. But the woman was too quick for him. The legs of the table met him in the stomach and sent him staggering back. Through the sickening pain, he could hear her soft laugh 

 Prev. P 59/227 next