“Anything doing?”

“Not yet.  He will duly apprise me.  Meanwhile we, or rather I, am to remain quiet and wait expectantly.”

“He thinks you are alone?”

“Of course.  He would be off like a colt if he thought that I had a corps of assistants.”

“The longer the delay the more chance France has to repeat the letter by cable,” Marston remarked.

“Certainly—­but I shan’t be fool enough to tell him so, or anything as to the letter.  He would end negotiations instantly.”

“When are you to see him?”

“This afternoon at three.”

“At Chartrands?”

“No, in Union Station.”

“It’s a long way to go,” Marston observed.

“So I intimated, but without avail.”

“Is he afraid?”

“No, only inexperienced in deception and over cautious.  Moreover, it is a serious business.”

“Particularly since Harleston is on the trail?” Marston added.

Mrs. Spencer nodded again.  “We’ll pray that he does not uncover the matter until we are up and away.”

“If we pray, it should be effective!” Marston laughed.

“It likely will be—­one way or the other,” she returned drily.  “However, if we are careful, a prayer more or less won’t effect much damage.  It’s really up to the—­man in the case.  If he can get away with it, we can manage the rest.”

“And if he can’t?”

“Then there will be nothing on us, unless the Clephane letter is translated and implicates me by name—­or Paris resorts to cable.  If it were not for France’s meddling, it would be ridiculously simple so far as we are concerned; everything would be up to the man.”

“And you do not know who the man is, nor what he is about to betray?” Marston asked.

“I do not—­nor am I in the least inquisitive, despite the fact that I’m a woman.  I haven’t even so much as tried to guess.  I was ordered here under express instructions; which are to meet someone who will communicate with me by letter in which a certain phrase will occur.  Thereafter I am to be guided by him and the circumstances until I receive from him a certain package, when I am instantly to depart the country and hurry straight to Berlin.  Whether I am to receive a copy of a secret treaty between our friends or our enemies, a diplomatic secret of high importance, a report on the fortifications or forces of another nation, or what it is, I haven’t the slightest idea.  It’s all in the game—­and the game fascinates me; its dangers and its uncertainty.  Some other nation wants what Germany is about to get; some other nation seeks to prevent its betrayal; some other nation seeks to block us; someone else would even murder us to gain a point—­and our own employer would not raise a hand to seek retribution, or even to acknowledge that we had died in her cause.  They laud the soldier who dies for his flag, but he who dies in the secret service of a government is never heard of.  He disappears; for the peace or the reputation of nations his name is not upon the public rolls of the good and faithful servants.  It’s risky, Marston; it’s thankless; it’s without glory and without fame; nevertheless it’s a fascinating game; the stakes are incalculable, the remuneration is the best.”