"
She came down a step.
"Are you?" she asked imperiously. "Then--will you prove it? Will you go
back to Paris by to-night's train?"
I had recovered myself.
"There isn't any train to-night," I protested, civil, but adamant.
"And--I'm sorry, but if there was I wouldn't take it--not until I've
accomplished what I came to do!"
The girl seemed to concentrate all the world's disdain in the look that
measured me, running from my head to my unoffending feet, from my feet
back to my head.
"Most men would go, Mr. Bayne," she flung at me, her red lips scornful.
"But then, most men wouldn't have come, of course. And all you will
accomplish is to make me dine up here in this--this wretched, stuffy
room." Before I could lift a hand in protest, she had turned, mounted
the stairs again, and vanished. The door--shall I own it?--slammed.
CHAPTER XIV
THE PLOT THICKENS
Presently, summoned by the hostess, I went to my lonely meal in a mood
that nobody on earth had cause to envy me. One thing was certain: Should
it ever be disclosed that Miss Esme Falconer was not a spy, I should
lack courage to go on living.
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