Heideck was still staring like one hypnotised at the paper covered with the regularly formed writing of a practised clerk’s hand.

“Incomprehensible!” he murmured.  Then, suddenly looking at Edith almost threateningly, he repeated—­

“How did you come by it?”

“You are questioning me like a magistrate.  But you may know, for all I care.  The brother of the lady with whom I was staying in Dover is private secretary to the Admiralty—­a poor fellow, suffering from disease of the lungs, whose one desire was to go to Egypt or Madeira, to get relief from his sufferings.  By finding him the means for this I have done an act of philanthrophy.  I asked him, in return for a further present of money, to give me the copy of an important document connected with his department.”

She suddenly broke off, and Heideck burst out into a short, sharp laugh which filled her with surprise and alarm.

“An act of philanthrophy!” he repeated in a tone of unspeakable bitterness.  “Did you know what this man was selling to you?”

“He said it was the English fleet’s plan of attack, and I thought it would interest you.”

“But surely you must have known how far-reaching would be the consequences of your act?  Had you no suspicion that irreparable harm might overtake your country, if this plan came to the knowledge of its enemies?”

His voice quivered with fearful anxiety, but Edith did not seem to understand his excitement.

“I understand you less and less,” she said impatiently.  “It can only be one of two things.  Either this paper is of importance to you, and then you ought to feel the more grateful to me, the more important it is.  Or the secretary has deceived me as to its value.  Then it isn’t worth the trouble of saying any more about it.”

“Do you look at it in that light, Edith?” he said, mournfully.  “Only in that light?  Did you only think of yourself and me, when you bribed an unfortunate wretch to commit the most disgraceful of all crimes?”

“Oh, my dearest, what strong language!  I was not prepared for such reproaches.  Certainly I was only thinking of you and me, and I am not in the least ashamed to confess it, for there is nothing in the world of more importance for me than our love.”

“And your country, Edith? is that of no account?”

“My country—­what is it?  A piece of earth with stones, trees, animals, and men who are nothing to me, to whom I owe nothing and am indebted for nothing.  Why should I love them more than the inhabitants of any other region, amongst whom there are just as many good and bad people as amongst them?  I am an Englishwoman:  well, but I am also a Christian.  And who would have the right to condemn me, if the commandments of Christianity were more sacred to me than all narrow-minded, national considerations?  If the possession of this paper really made you the stronger—­if it should bring defeat upon England, instead of the hoped-for victory which would only endlessly prolong the war—­what would mankind lose thereby?  Perhaps peace would be the sooner concluded, and, justly proud of my act, I would then confess before all the world.”