e man he pretended that he was. He spoke French perfectly,
but he was not in the French flying service. He was English. I
recollected my instructions from the great Dawson--to stick to any one
who excited my suspicions, to let him make love to me if need be, and
to discover his secrets. I am, my friend, a martyr to duty. Besides,
le Capitaine Rouille was a handsome young man, very attractive. I was
not grieved at the thought that he might pursue me with his
attentions."

"Why," I asked in turn of Rust, "did you begin by telling lies to the
charming Madame Gilbert?"

"I was in French uniform," said he, "and I had to play my part."

"And a nice mess you made of it," said I rudely.

"I am afraid that I did. That slip about the R.A.F. engine was
unpardonable. But then how was I to know that the dear woman knew as
much about aeroplanes as I did myself? She was like Desdemona at the
feet of Othello, and, of course, I lost my head. You are as crazy
about her as I am, with less excuse. Besides, I was on duty. Before
Madame had spoken to me for five minutes, I was certain that she was
not French. She spoke perfectly, but there was a little accent, a
delightful accent, that told me she was Irish. That soupcon of a
brogue which gives so delicate a spice to her English appears also in
her French. My mother was an Irish woman, though I have never lived in
Ireland. You know that all the Irish, especially those of America or
of France, are watched most carefully by the police. Many of them hate
the English, and spy upon us. When, therefore, I perceived that
Madame, though she appeared to be French was by birth Irish, I
recollected my instructions from Froissart. It was my duty to stick to
her, to study her. If necessary to make love to her. It did not seem
wholly disagreeable to me," he added dryly, "to make love to Madame
Gilbert."

"I forgive you," said I, "though, from what I learn, you somewhat
exceeded your instructions."

* * * * *

If I were not a most serious writer, this veracious history of Madame
Gilbert and Captain Rust would tend to degenerate into comedy,
possibly to reach the depths of farce. But, to one of my grave bent of
mind, wasted deception, wasted energies, and, above all, wasted
national money, excite rather to tears than to laughter. What a
spectacle was this which I place before the reader! Here were two
trusted members of the English Secret Service pitting against one