"I am not married, Herr Baron," Ruth assured, employing the address to one of title. Either he was a possessor of baronial rank and pleased with the recognition of the fact, or the assignment of the rank was gratifying and he did not correct her.
"And in America you have no sweetheart of your own—other than your 'flames?'"
He spoke the slang word in English, referring to Byrne and to Gerry Hull, with both of whom, as he believed, she had merely played.
"No one, Herr Baron," Ruth denied, but colored warmly. He took this flush for confession that she was hiding an attachment; and he laughed.
"No matter, Luise; he is not here."
He was indulgently more familiar with her—a von something or other, admitting pleasure with the daughter of a man of no rank who had emigrated to America. Ruth brought up the business between them to halt further acceleration of this familiarity.
"I am to make my report to you, Herr Baron?"
"Report? Ah, yes! No; of course not. Why should you make report here now? It is simply trouble to record and transmit it. You are not going back to France, I said, did I not?"
"Yes."
"Then the report will be tomorrow."
"Where, Herr Baron?"
"Where I take you to—headquarters."
Ruth went weak and gasped in spite of herself. She had thought that she was prepared to meet any fate; but now she knew that she had built upon encountering her
