“Do not jump—­do not be afraid,” laughed Mlle. Nadiboff, rather maliciously.  “Nothing in the way of danger threatens.”

Almost immediately the chug-chug of another auto was heard, just ahead up the narrow road.  Then into sight glided a small runabout, which sat M. Lemaire, all by himself.  That Frenchman stopped his car, next waving one hand gayly to those in the larger car.

Then, lifting his hat most courteously to the young woman, M. Lemaire stepped over to the other car.  The Russian woman spoke in some tongue, the like of which Benson had never heard before.  It was Arabic, a language that both of these spies understood perfectly.  What she said was: 

“The boy is yours.  Do what you can with him.  I admit that I have failed.  I have no hope of being able to do anything with him.”

M. Lemaire’s eyebrows contracted briefly, in a slight frown.  Then, forcing a pleasant look to his face, the Frenchman asked, in a tone easy enough with courtesy: 

“Captain Benson, will you step out and talk with me a few moments?  I have much to say.”

“I can listen,” nodded Jack, looking steadily, shrewdly into the eyes of this male spy.  “At the same time, sir, this whole proceeding, meeting, request and all are so unusual that I think you cannot do better than to give me a frank explanation of what this all means.”

“Means?” murmured the Frenchman, as though not comprehending.

“Yes,” retorted Captain Jack Benson, disdaining to beat about the bush for an instant.  “If you pretend that you do not understand me, sir, I shall feel obliged to have a poor idea of either your honesty or your intelligence.”

“Are you trying to insult me?” asked the Frenchman, a warning flash in his eyes.

“Not at all,” Jack answered, unhesitatingly.  “I am asking you for a direct statement.  Why am I brought here in this fashion?  What is wanted of me?”

The young captain was now paying no attention to Mlle. Nadiboff.  She, finding herself not needed in the talk, had slipped out at the other side of the car, and was now strolling slowly some yards away.

“Won’t you step out, Captain Benson, so we an walk and talk this matter over?” again insisted the Frenchman.

“Then you have something to say that you don’t think quite proper for the chauffeur to hear?” demanded Benson, almost mockingly.

“Oh, our good Gaston is all right,” laughed the Frenchman, nodding at the chauffeur.

“The chauffeur, then, is one of the crowd—­all spies,” flashed through Jack’s vengeful mind.  “I might have guessed it.  And this crowd have me a long way from my friends.”

“You are not afraid to step down to the ground, Captain Benson?” asked the male spy, half mockingly.

“Afraid?” flushed Jack, springing down to the ground and confronting M. Lemaire.  “No; I am not afraid of a regiment like you!”