hough it made me furious, had brought
conviction. There was a certain grim appositeness about it all. The
night in New York, the events of the steamer, the unsatisfactory
character of the girl's actions, all fitted neatly into the plan; and
the mere personnel of the pursuing party was sufficient assurance, for
French officers, as I well knew, were neither liars nor fools. Neither,
I patriotically assumed, were the men of my country's secret-service,
however humble their part as cogs in that great machinery, or however
distasteful Mr. Van Blarcom, personally, might be to me. And finally, I
could not deny that women, clever, well-born, and beautiful, had served
as spies a thousand times in the world's history, urged to it by some
sense of duty, some tie of blood.

Yes, that was it, I told myself in sudden pity, recalling how Miss
Falconer had stood on the steps in her nurse's costume, straight and
slender, her gray eyes full of fire, her face glowing like a rose.
Perhaps she was of the enemy's country. Perhaps those she loved,
those who made up her life, had set her feet in this path that she
was treading. If she was a spy,--Lord! How the mere word hurt one!--it
wasn't for ignoble motives; it wasn't for pay.

I came impulsively to the conclusion that there was just one course
for my taking: to see her and to beg, bully, or wheedle from her the
unvarnished truth. Then, if it was as I feared, she should go back to
Paris if I had to carry her; she should accompany me to Bordeaux, and on
the first steamer she should sail from France. Yes; and the army should
have its papers, for she should tell me where they were hidden. Her work
should end; but these men upstairs should not track her and trap her and
drag her off to prison, perhaps to death.

There was danger in the plan, even if I should accomplish it. I should
get myself into trouble, dark and deep. Well, if I had to languish
behind bars for a while I could survive it. But she might not. As I
thought of this I knew that I had made up my mind irrevocably.

It was a problem, nevertheless, to arrange an interview, with Van
Blarcom sitting at his window, watching me like a lynx. I couldn't go
up the stairs and batter on her door till she opened it; apart from the
reception she would give me it would simply amount to making a present
of my intentions to the men across the way. Yet who knew how long they
would keep up their surveillance? Till I retired, probably! "I'd give
s