A Soul of Steel by Carole Nelson Douglas Page A

the dinner that had followed under Irene’s formidable scrutiny.
    Irene smiled. “Oh, I was up more than half the night at that, Nell, but I haven’t worried about confessions I must make in the morning, as you have.”
    “What confessions?”
    “You might start,” she suggested, sipping the scalding coffee with true American bravado, “by telling us the identity of the sunburnt hero upstairs.”
    “What makes you think that Nell knows?” Godfrey asked.
    “Why do you call him a hero?” I demanded simultaneously.
    She blinked and stared from one of us to the other.
    “My, but we are testy this lovely morning. To answer your questions: Nell has always known the man, Godfrey; she simply did not recognize him until last evening.” Irene addressed me next. “As for his being a hero, I found a medal concealed in his shoe. What do you say to that?”
    I sipped my tea, which had cooled to tepid peppermint consommé. “That I am relieved to learn that the fellow actually wore shoes.”
    Irene laughed delightedly. “You are doing a splendid job of pretending ignorance, but I could tell from your manner last evening that something troubled you. Surely only knowing the identity of the sick man could deaden your palette to Veal Malmaison.”
    “I suppose he revealed that while you were sequestered with him later?”
    “Alas, no. He was as irritatingly mum on the subject then as you are now.”
    “Perhaps it’s a conspiracy,” Godfrey suggested, “between our Nell and the mysterious stranger from the East.”
    “You are a cold-blooded pair,” I put in, “to show such curiosity about a man who may be dying from some subtly administered poison.”
    “A hatpin is hardly subtle, Nell,” Irene corrected me. “And I think that the poison it bore is not fatal to this particular victim. Besides,” she added blithely, shaking her napkin free of pastry flakes, “his fever broke in the night. I expect him to be perfectly intelligible this morning.”
    I could not keep from jumping in my chair. “Why did you not say so the first thing? We must let the poor man know where he is, so he does not panic.”
    Irene’s warm hand covered my icy fist like a tea cozy. “He will not panic. He knows he is among friends.”
    I was about to ask how this could be, but feared I would not like the answer. So we finished breakfast—or my friends did. I had suddenly lost my appetite, as I had last night at dinner.
    “I do believe I know him,” I admitted at last, “but he has changed so much...”
    “Perhaps you have as well,” Irene said almost consolingly.
    “I? Not in the least, I’m sure. After all, he recognized me, not vice versa.”
    “Do you wish to tell us of him?” Godfrey inquired.
    “I would rather let him speak for himself,” I said firmly. “He has changed so greatly that I dare not speculate on why or how.”
    “What a shame!” Irene smiled tigerishly. “Speculation is one of the few truly creative entertainments left to our modern times. I have been concocting plots on an operatic scale. I would hate to have our guest destroy them with the simple, dull truth.”
    We finished breakfast, each in our way, and repaired upstairs to confront the invalid. There he lay, brown upon the bed linens but pale in an inner, spiritual sense. Perhaps the breaking fever had also washed away his resolve.
    Sophie made a self-important to-do about fluffing pillows and propping him up against them so he could speak with us. Despite the snowy nightshirt he wore, or because of it, his skin seemed strikingly dark, though his eyes no longer held the unnatural luster of illness.
    He spoke in that disconcertingly perfect English while the rest of us studied his remarkable appearance in silence.
    “I apologize for inflicting myself upon your household. The maid tells me that you plucked me from collapse upon the cobblestones of Notre Dame.”
    Irene pounced. “Then you speak French, for our servant speaks no English.”
    He looked