till she died?

With the gesture of one who relinquishes his hold upon something he has
discovered to be valueless, Trevor Mordaunt turned in his tracks and
began to walk back over the long stretch of sand. He looked no longer in
the direction of the Magic Cave, but rather quickened his steps as though
he desired to leave it far behind. But there was no escaping that
all-mastering suspicion. It went with him, closely locked with his own
spirit, and he could not shake it off.

Back to his hotel he walked, with no glance at sea or shining
sunset, and went straight to his own room. There was a private
sitting-room adjoining, which he was wont to share with some of his
fellow-journalists. They used it as a club writing-room when the
proceedings of the court-martial were over for the day. He had his notes
in his pocket; his report was not yet written. He remembered that he must
catch the midnight mail, and decided that he would not stop to dress.
That day's sitting had been longer than usual, and his walk along the
shore had made him late.

He passed straight through his bedroom, therefore, and into the
sitting-room that overlooked the sea. A small, round-backed man, with a
shag of black hair upon his face, was sitting by the window. There were
three other men in the room, all writing busily. All, save the man by the
window, glanced up at Mordaunt's entrance and nodded to him. They were
all English, with the exception of the stranger, who was obviously
French.

Mordaunt looked at him questioningly, but no one volunteered an
explanation. He had evidently been sitting there for some time. His gaze
was fixed upon the darkening sea. It was plain that he had no desire to
court attention.

Quietly Mordaunt crossed the room to him. He was crouched like a monkey,
his chin on his hand, and made no movement at his approach.

Mordaunt reached him, and bent a little. "_Est-ce que vous attendez
quelqu'un, monsieur_?"

Dark eyes flashed up at him, and sharply Mordaunt straightened himself.

"I await Mr. Mordaunt," a soft voice said.

There was an instant's pause before, "That is my name," Mordaunt said
very quietly.

"_Eh bien, monsieur_! May I speak with you--in private?"

The stranger rose shufflingly. He had the look of an old man.

"Come this way," Mordaunt said.

He re-crossed the room, his visitor hobbling in his wake. No one spoke,
but all surveyed the latter curiously, and as the door of Mordaunt's
bedroom closed