He had been there nearly every night, hopeful that Suzanne would pass again, but not until tonight did she come.

The tall figure, swathed almost to the eyes in a heavy cloak, came down the terrace to the walk, and John whistled low a note of a French folksong.

He had merely hoped that she would stop a moment or two to listen, and the little device succeeded.

She paused and looked at the black mass of the shrubbery.
"Suzanne! Suzanne!" called John, his voice showing all the intenseness of his anxiety.
"Monsieur Scott," she said in a loud whisper.
"Yes, Suzanne, here behind the bushes! I must have word with you!" Silently she stepped into the impenetrable shadows and John eagerly seized her hand.
"Your mistress, Mademoiselle Julie," he whispered eagerly, "she does not break down with the suspense and anxiety?
She still hopes ?" "You need not fear for her courage, Monsieur Scott.

Did I not tell you that she had a heart of steel, even the same as that of her great brother.