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"Yes, she knows, Suzanne. Come, show me the way to my quarters; and no more 'sir' just now." We were standing by the stairs. I looked up and saw the other girls clustered on the landing above us. "Go and tell them," I said. "Warn them to show no surprise. Then come back and show me the way."

Now my story goes back to that night at the stead when I, Suzanne Botmar and my husband, Jan Botmar, were awakened from our sleep to learn that our daughter had been carried off by that mad villain, Piet Van Vooren, and that her husband Ralph lay senseless and wounded in the waggon at the door.

It was an hour later when he opened his eyes. "I was going to wake you at three," Suzanne said. "Make that two gardenburgers," he said. "I'd better take a shower." Suzanne cut up an onion and fried it with the burgers. "Damn," Oliver said, emerging from the steamy bathroom, "onions!" He was still waking up. Suzanne was dressed again.

Marechal listened silently to Suzanne, not daring to tell her what he thought of Herzog, and respected the real ignorance or willing blindness of the young girl who did not doubt her father's loyalty. The Princess, leaning on Cayrol's arm, had just finished promenading round the rooms, when she perceived Suzanne and, leaving the banker, came and seated herself beside her.

In spite of the words with which she had defended him, Suzanne was disappointed in her betrothed, and yet, in a way, she understood his bearing to be the natural fruit of that indomitable pride of which she had observed the outward signs, and for which, indeed as much as for the beauty of his person, she had consented to become his wife. After all, it was the outward man she knew.

It would be impossible to describe even in so detailed an account as this the subtleties, vagaries, beauties and terrors of the emotions which seized upon him, and which by degrees began also to possess Suzanne, once he became wholly infatuated with her. Mrs. Dale, was, after a social fashion, one of Eugene's best friends.

Suzanne stared into his distraught face, his handsome, desperate, significant eyes. She saw the woe there, the agony, and was sympathetic. He seemed wonderfully worthy of love, unhappy, unfortunately pursued; and yet she was frightened. Still she had promised to love him. "No," she said fixedly, her eyes speaking a dramatic confidence. "You won't leave here tonight?" "No."

Still before two hours were over Zinti came, gaunt and footsore, but healthy and unharmed, and sitting down before Suzanne in her private enclosure, began at the very beginning of his long story, after the native fashion, telling of those things which had befallen him upon the day when he left the mountain nearly two years before. "Your news? Your news?" said Suzanne.

"All our trouble and forethought thrown away," said Suzanne sulkily, when they had pushed their way fruitlessly through half a dozen departments. "I can't think why you didn't grab him by the arm," said Eleanor; "I would have if I'd known him longer, but I'd only just been introduced. It's nearly four now, we'd better have tea." Some days later Suzanne rang Eleanor up on the telephone.

He went away to change his clothes, and then stepped into Angela's room. "I'm going to walk with Suzanne," he said dominantly, when he was ready. "All right," said Angela, who was so tired she could have fainted. "Will you be back for dinner?" "I don't know," he replied. "What difference does it make?" "Only this: that the maid and cook need not stay unless you are coming. I want nothing."