“Do you really understand?”
“I think I do. Your woman’s intuition has told you that there is something wrong.”
“In what way?”
“You are afraid of your thoughts. You can see that Madame de Stämer and Colonel Menendez are deliberately concealing something from Paul Harley, and you don’t know where your duty lies. Am I right?”
She met my glance for a moment in a startled way, then:
“Yes,” she said, softly; “you are quite right. How have you guessed?”
“I have tried very hard to understand you,” I replied, “and so perhaps up to a point I have succeeded.”
“Oh, Mr. Knox.” She suddenly laid her hand upon my arm. “I am oppressed with such a dreadful foreboding, yet I don’t know how to explain it to you.”
“I understand. I, too, have felt it.”
“You have?” She paused, and looked at me eagerly. “Then it is not just morbid imagination on my part. If only I knew what to do, what to believe. Really, I am bewildered. I have just left Madame de Stämer”
“Yes?” I said, for she had paused in evident doubt.
“Well, she has utterly broken down.”
“Broken down?”
“She came to my room and sobbed hysterically for nearly an hour this afternoon.”
“But what was the cause of her grief?”
“I simply cannot understand.”
“Is it possible that Colonel Menendez is dangerously ill?”
