his wonder at the high spirits advertised by her rekindled colour and brilliant eyes.
"Well?" she demanded gaily. "Don't tell me I don't look like a fright! I know I do!"
"I daren't tell you how you look to me," Lanyard replied soberly. "But I will say this, that for sheer, down right pluck, you—"
"Thank you, monsieur! And you?"
He glanced with a deprecatory smile at the flimsy-looking contrivance to which they were presently to entrust their lives.
"Somehow," said he doubtfully, "I don't feel in the least upset or exhilarated. It seems little out of the average run of life—all in the day's work!"
"I think," she said, judgmatical, "that you're very like the other lone wolf, the fictitious one—Lupin, you know—a bit of a blagueur. If you're not nervous, why keep glancing over there?—as if you were rather expecting somebody—as if you wouldn't be surprised to see Popinot or De Morbihan pop out of the ground—or Ekstrom!"
"Hum!" he said gravely. "I don't mind telling you now, that's precisely what I am afraid of."
"Nonsense!" the girl cried in open contempt. "What could they do?"
"Please don't ask me," Lanyard begged seriously. "I might try to tell you."
"But don't worry, my dear!" Fugitively her hand touched his. "We're ready."
It was true enough: Ducroy was moving impressively back toward them.
