truth of his declaration, and lifted his valise from the rack.

It was a simple movement, simple as the question and answer that had
preceded it, but it held interest for Blake. He could not have analyzed
the impression, but something in the boy's air touched him, something in
the young figure so plainly clad, so aloof, stood out with sharp appeal
in the grayness and unreality of the dawn. A feeling that was neither
curiosity nor pity, and yet savored of both, urged him to further
speech. As his two companions, anxious to be free of the train, passed
out into the corridor, he glanced once more at the slight figure, at the
high Russian boots, the long overcoat, the fur cap drawn down over the
dark hair.

"Look here! you aren't alone in Paris?" he asked in the easy, impersonal
way that spoke his nationality. "You have people--friends to meet you?"

For an instant the look that had possessed the boy's face during the
journey--the look of suspicion akin to fear--leaped up, but on the
moment it was conquered. The well-poised head was thrown back, and again
the eyes met Blake's in a deliberate gaze.

"Why do you ask, monsieur?"

The words were clipped, the tone proud and a little cold.

Another man might have hesitated to reply truthfully, but Blake was an
Irishman and used to self-expression.

"I ask," he said, simply, "because you are so young."