CHAPTER XVIII.
A Strange Good Humor
OR a moment Marie Delhasse stood looking at me; then she uttered a low cry, full of relief, of security, of joy; and coming to me stretched out her hands, saying:
“You are here then, after all!”
Charmed to see how she greeted me, I had not the heart to tell her that her peril was not past; nor did she give me the opportunity, for went on directly:
“And you are wounded? But not badly, not badly, Mr. Aycon?”
“Who told you I was wounded?”
“Why, the duke. He said that you had been shot by a thief, and were very badly hurt; and—and” She stopped, blushing.
(“Where is he?” I remembered the words; my forecast of their meaning had been true.)
“And did what he told you,” I asked softly, “make you leave the convent and come to find me?”
“Yes,” she answered, taking courage and meeting my eyes. “And then you were not here, and I thought it was a trap.”
“You were right; it was a trap. I came to
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