ar regard into the depths of
his very soul--not in recognition, but in watchful, dangerous
defiance.

He began again, still stammering a trifle:

"--In the morning, we were to--to meet--at eleven--near the fountain
of Marie de Medicis--unless you do not care to remember----"

At that her gaze altered swiftly, melted into the exquisite relief of
recognition. Suspended breath, released, parted her blanched lips; her
little guardian heart, relieved of fear, beat more freely.

"Are you Garry?"

"Yes."

"I know you now," she murmured. "You are Garret Barres, of the rue
d'Eryx.... You _are_ Garry!" A smile already haunted her dark young
eyes; colour was returning to lip and cheek. She drew a deep,
noiseless breath.

The table where she sat continued to slip past him; the distance
between them was widening. She had to turn her head a little to face
him.

"You do remember me then, Nihla?"

The girl inclined her head a trifle. A smile curved her lips--lips now
vivid but still a little tremulous from the shock of the encounter.

"May I join you at your table?"

She smiled, drew a deeper breath, looked down at the strawberry on the
cloth, looked over her shoulder at him.

"You owe me an explanation," he insisted, leaning forward to span the
increasing distance between them.

"Do I?"

"Ask yourself."

After a moment, still studying him, she nodded as though the nod
answered some silent question of her own:

"Yes, I owe you one."

"Then may I join you?"

"My table is more prudent than I. It is running away from an
explanation." She fixed her eyes on her tightly clasped hands, as
though to concentrate thought. He could see only the back of her head,
white neck and lovely dark hair.

Her table was quite a distance away when she turned, leisurely, and
looked back at him.

"May I come?" he asked.

She lifted her delicate brows in demure surprise.

"I've been waiting for you," she said, amiably.

The one-eyed man had never taken his eyes off them.

IV

DUSK

She had offered him her hand; he had bent over it, seated himself, and
they smilingly exchanged the formal banalities of a pleasantly renewed
acquaintance.

A waiter laid a cover for him. She continued to concern herself,
leisurely, with her strawberries.

"When did you leave Paris?" she enquired.

"Nearly two years ago."

"Before war was declared?"

"Yes, in June of that year."

She looked up at him very seriously; but they bot