to say good-by to you—before you sail for France!"
He did not move from where he stood between the two windows, with the moonlight drifting across his shoulders into the dim, prosy hotel room, and weaving a fantastic pattern into the threadbare carpet.
There was surprise in his accents, and a keen, peremptory challenge.
"How did you know that I was booked to sail? Our orders are secret. I am here on a special mission until the day after to-morrow—incognito, at that. Josephine, how did you find me out? Who told you that I was here?"
She smiled.
"Of course I knew, dear. How could I help knowing?"
Suddenly, strangely, the explanation—what there was of it—seemed lucid and satisfactory and reasonable, and he crossed the room and bowed over her hand. He took the rose from her narrow, white fingers and inhaled its heavy, honeyed fragrance.
"A rose from your garden!" He heard his own voice coming in an odd murmur. "From your garden up there in the little New England village!"
