“I mean,” he corrected with truly British phlegm, “that I can’t say positively your story is untrue.  Here’s the case:  Some one—­probably Franz von Blenheim—­wants to send these papers home by way of Italy and Switzerland.  Your hotel manager tells him you are going to sail for Naples; you are an American on your way to help the Allies; it’s ten to one that nobody will suspect you and that your baggage will go through untouched.  What does he do?  He has the papers slipped into your wallet.  Then he sends a cable to some friend in Naples about a sick aunt, or candles, or soap.  And the friend translates the cable by a private code and reads that you are coming and that he is to shadow you and learn where you are stopping and loot your trunk the first night you spend ashore!”

“I don’t grasp,” I commented dazedly; “why they should weave such circles.  Why not let one of their own agents bring over the papers?”

The lieutenant smiled a faint, cold, wintry smile.

“Spies,” he informed me, “always think they are watched, and generally they’re not wrong in thinking so.  If they can send their documents by an innocent person, they had better.  For my part, I call it a very clever scheme.”

“I believe I am dreaming,” I muttered.  “Somebody ought to pinch me.  You found those infernal things nestling among my coats and hose and trousers—­and you don’t think I put them there?”

“I didn’t say that,” he denied as unresponsively as a brazen Vishnu.  “I simply say that I wouldn’t care to order you shot as things stand now.  But you’ll remember that I have only your word that all this happened or that you are really an American or even that this passport is yours and that your name is—­ah—­Devereux Bayne.  We’ll have to know quite a bit more before we call this thing settled.  How are you going to satisfy his Majesty the King?”

I plucked up spirit.

“Well,” I suggested, “how will this suit you?  I’ll go down to my stateroom and stop there until we land in Italy; and, if you like, just to be on the safe side with such a desperado as I am, you can put a guard outside my door.  But first, you’ll send a sheaf of marconigrams for me in both directions.  You’re welcome to read them, of course, before they go.  Then when we get to Naples, my friend, Mr. Herriott, will meet the steamer.  He is second secretary at the United States embassy, and his identification will be sufficient, I suppose.  Anyhow, if it isn’t, I dare say the ambassador will say a word for me.  I have known him for years, though not so well.”

“That would be quite sufficient as to identification.”  He stressed the last word significantly, and I thanked heaven for Dunny and the forces which I knew that rather important old personage could set to work.

“Also,” I continued coolly, “there will be various cablegrams from United States officials awaiting us, which will convince you, I hope, that I am not likely to be a spy.  There will be a statement from the friend who dined with me at the St. Ives.  There will be the declaration of the policeman who saw the German climb down the fire-escape and bolt into the room beneath.”  “And hang the expense!” I added inwardly, computing cable rates, but assuming a lordly indifference to them which only a multimillionaire could really feel.