There was a young man, a noble of France, who had been a hero. I had
read of him in a certain extra, as my steamer left New York. He
had disappeared. Certain papers had vanished with him. He had been
suspected, because it was known that the Germans wanted those special
documents. All the world, I thought dully, seemed to be hunting papers;
the French, the Germans, Miss Falconer, and I.
Once more I looked at the man on the chest. He had dropped his pistol
and was clasping the girl to him, soothing her, stroking her hair. My
brain began to work more rapidly. The little flashes of light seemed to
run together, to crystallize into a whole. I knew.
Jean-Herve-Marie-Olivier, the Duke of Raincy-la-Tour, the Firefly of
France.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE FIREFLY OF FRANCE
He was very weak indeed; it seemed a miracle that, at the sounds below,
he had found strength to drag himself from his bed and crawl inch by
inch to the room of the secret panel to mount guard there; and no sooner
had he soothed Miss Falconer than he collapsed in a sort of swoon.
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