"Will you do this for me, Monsieur Duchemin? I warn you, it may cost you
your life."
He took it, his temper veering to the whimsical. "What is life?" he
questioned. "A prelude--perhaps an overture to that great drama, Death. Who
knows? Who cares?"
She heard him in a stare. "You place no value on life?"
"Mademoiselle," he said, "I have lived nearly thirty years in this world,
three years in the theatre of war, seldom far from the trenches of one
front or another. I tell you, I know death too well...."
He shrugged and put the roll of paper away in a pocket.
"You understand it must not be taken from you under any circumstance? As a
last resort, it must be destroyed rather than yielded up."
"It shall be," he said quietly. "Is there anything more?"
She shook her head, thoughtfully knuckling her underlip.
"How can I communicate with you in event of necessity after we get to New
York?" she asked.
"I shall stop for a week or two at the Hotel Knickerbocker."
"If anything should happen"--with a swift glance of anxiety toward the
motionless figure in the berth--"if anything should prevent my calling for
it within a week after our arrival, you will be good enough to deliver it
to--" She caught herself up quickly, the unuttered words trembling on her
lip.
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