Her apartment was on the ground floor. She stood up, revealing herself
disdainfully in the moonlight that now lay full on her window, then went
out quickly into the vestibule and unlocked the house door. Her only
fear was that the man would have gone, but if he were still there she
was determined to walk boldly over to his skulking-place and pretend she
believed him to be a burglar or a foreign spy. In these days she carried
a small pistol and a dagger.

When she had stepped out on the pavement she glanced quickly up and down
the street. Not even a _polizeidiener_ was in sight, for this
aristocratic quarter was, in peace and war, the quietest part of an
always orderly town. It was evident that the man spied alone.

Holding her head very high, she started across the street; but she had
not taken three steps when the shadow detached itself and walked rapidly
out into the moonlight. She gave a sharp cry and shrank back. It was
Franz von Nettelbeck.

"You--" she stammered. "They sent you--"

"They? And why should I alarm you? Am I so formidable?" He uttered his
short harsh laugh and lifted his cap. His head was bandaged; there was a
deep scar along the outer line of his right cheek. His face was gaunt
and lined; and his shoulders sagged until he suddenly bethought himself
and flung them back with a deathless instinct.

Gisela smiled and gave him her hand with a graceful spontaneity. "The
sense of being watched always shakes the nerves a bit, and I have felt
up to nothing myself for a long time. Why did not you come up to the
window when you recognized me?"