"Very well. Don't mention it to anyone, and I'll see what can be done.

It shouldn't be difficult, since you've earned the first stripe already."

Martin found his brigadier at the mess. A few minutes' conversation with the great man led him to a greater in the person of the divisional general. Yet a few more minutes of earnest talk, and he was in a car, bound for General Grant's headquarters, which he reached late that night. It was long after midnight when the two retired, and the son's face was almost as worn and care-lined as the father's ere the discussion ended.

Few problems have been so baffling and none more dangerous to the Allied armies in France than the German spy system. It was so perfect before the war, every possible combination of circ.u.mstances had been foreseen and provided against so fully, that the most thorough hunting out and ruthless punishment of enemy agents has failed to crush the organization. The snake has been scotched, but not killed. Its venom is still potent. Every officer on the staff and many senior regimental officers have been astounded time and again by the completeness and up-to-date nature of the information possessed by the Germans. Surprise attacks planned with the utmost secrecy have found enemy trenches held by packed reserves and swarming with additional machine-guns. Newly established ammunition dpts, carefully screened, have been bombed next day by aeroplanes and subjected to high-angle fire. Troop movements by rail over long distances have become known, and their effect discounted.

Flanders, in particular, is a plague-spot of espionage which has cost Britain an untold sacrifice of life and an almost immeasurable waste of effort.

Small wonder, then, that Martin's forehead should be seamed with foreboding. If his suspicions, which his father shared, were justified, the French Intelligence Department would quickly determine the truth, and no power on earth could save Angle and her mother from a firing party. France knows her peril and stamps it out unflinchingly. Of late, too, the British authorities adopt the same rigorous measures. The spy, man or woman, is shown no mercy.

And now the whirligig of events had placed in Martin's hands the question of life or death for Mrs. Saumarez and Angle. It was a loathsome burden. He rebelled against it. During the long run to Paris his very soul writhed at the thought that fate was making him their executioner. He tried to steel his resolution by dwelling on the mischief they might have caused by thinking rather of the gallant comrades laid forever in the soil of France because of their murderous duplicity than of the woman who was once his friend, of the girl whose kisses had once thrilled him to the core. Worst of all, both General Grant and he himself felt some measure of responsibility for their failure to inst.i.tute a searching inquiry as to Mrs. Saumarez's whereabouts when war broke out.

But he was distraught and miserable. He had a notion--a well-founded one, as it transpired--that an approving general had recommended him for the Military Cross; but from all appearance he might have expected a letter from the War Office announcing his dismissal from the service.

At last, after a struggle which left him so broken that at a cordon near Paris he was detained several minutes while a _sous-officier_ who did not like his looks communicated with a superior potentate, he made up his mind. Whate'er befell, he would give Angle and her mother one chance. If they decided to take it, well and good. If not, they must face the cold-eyed inquisition of the Quai d'Orsay.

Luckily, as matters turned out, he elected to call on Mrs. Saumarez first. For one thing, her house in the Rue Henri was not far from a hotel on the Champs Elyses where he was known to the management; for another, he wished to run no risk of being outwitted by Angle. If she and her mother were guilty of the ineffable infamy of betraying both the country of their nationality and that which sheltered them they must be trapped so effectually as to leave no room for doubt.

He was also fortunate in the fact that his soldier chauffeur, when given the choice, decided to wait and drive him to the Rue Henri. The man was candid as to his own plans for the evening.

"When I put the car up I'll have a hot bath and go to bed, sir," he said. "I've not had five hours' sleep straight on end during the past three weeks, an' I know wot'll happen if I start hittin' it up around these bullyvards. Me for the feathers at nine o'clock! So, if you don't mind, sir----"

Martin knew what the man meant. He wanted to be kept busy. One hour of enforced liberty implied the risk of meeting some hilarious comrades.

Even in Paris, strict as the police regulations may be, Britons from the front are able to sit up late, and the parties are seldom "dry."

So officer and man removed some of the marks of a long journey, ate a good meal, and about eight o'clock arrived at Mrs. Saumarez's house.

Life might be convivial enough inside, but the place looked deserted, almost forbidding, externally.

Indeed, Martin hesitated before pressing an electric bell and consulted a notebook to verify the street and number given him by the subaltern on the night von Struben was captured. But he had not erred. His memory never failed. There could be no doubt but that his special gift in this direction had been responsible for a rapid promotion, since military training, on the mental side, depends largely on a letter-perfect accuracy of recollection.

When he rang, however, the door opened at once. A bareheaded man in civilian attire, but looking most unlike a domestic, held aside a pair of heavy curtains which shut out the least ray of light from the hall.

"_Entrez, monsieur_," he said in reply to Martin, after a sharp glance at the car and its driver.

Martin heard a latch click behind him. He pa.s.sed on, to find himself before a sergeant of police seated at a table. Three policemen stood near.

"Your name and rank, monsieur?" said this official.

Martin, though surprised, almost startled, by these preliminaries, answered promptly. The sergeant nodded to one of his aides.

"Take this gentleman upstairs," he said.

"Is there any mistake?" inquired Martin. "I have come here to visit Mrs.

Saumarez."

"No mistake," said the sergeant. "Follow that man, monsieur."

a.s.sured now that some dramatic and wholly unexpected development had taken place, Martin tried to gather his wits as he mounted to the first floor. There, in a shuttered drawing-room, he confronted a shrewd-looking man in mufti, to whom his guide handed a written slip sent by the sergeant. Evidently, this was an official of some importance.

"Shall I speak English, Captain Grant?" he said, thrusting aside a pile of doc.u.ments and clearing a s.p.a.ce on the table at which he was busy.

"Well," said Martin, smiling, "I imagine that your English is better than my French."

He sat on a chair indicated by the Frenchman. He put no questions. He guessed he was in the presence of a tragedy.

"Is Mrs. Saumarez a friend of yours?" began the stranger.

"Yes, in a sense."

"Have you seen her recently?"

"Not for ten years."

Obviously, this answer was disconcerting. It was evident, too, that Martin's name was not on a typed list which the other man had scanned with a quick eye. Martin determined to clear up an involved situation.

"I take it that you are connected with the police department?" he said.

"Well, I have come from the British front at Armentires to inquire into the uses to which this house has been put. A number of British officers have been entertained here. Our people want to know why."

He left it at that for the time being, but the Frenchman's manner became perceptibly more friendly.

"May I examine your papers?" he said.

Martin handed over the bundle of "permis de voyage," which everyone without exception must possess in order to move about the roads of western France in wartime.

"Ah!" said the official, his air changing now to one of marked relief, "this helps matters greatly. My name is d.u.c.h.esne, Captain Grant--Gustave d.u.c.h.esne. I belong to the Bureau de l'Intrieur. So you people also have had your suspicions? There can be no doubt about it--the Baroness von Edelstein was a spy of the worst kind. The mischief that woman did was incalculable. Of course, it was hopeless to look for any real preventive work in England before the war; but we were caught napping here. You see, the widow of a British officer, a lady who had the best of credentials, and whose means were ample, hardly came under review. She kept open house, and had lived in Paris so long that her German origin was completely forgotten. In fact, the merest accident brought about her downfall."

One of the policemen came in with a written memorandum, which M.

d.u.c.h.esne read.

"Your chauffeur does not give information willingly," smiled the latter.

"The sergeant had to threaten him with arrest before he would describe your journey to-day."

It was clear that the authorities were taking nothing for granted where Mrs. Saumarez and her visitors were concerned. Martin felt that he had stumbled to the lip of an abyss. At any rate, events were out of his hands now, and for that dispensation he was profoundly thankful.

"I think I ought to tell you what I know of Mrs. Saumarez," he said. "I don't wish to do the unfortunate woman an injustice, and my facts are so nebulous----"

"One moment, Captain Grant," interposed the Frenchman. "You may feel less constraint if you hear that the Baroness died this morning."

"Good Heavens!" was Martin's involuntary cry. "Was she executed?"

"No," said the other. "She forestalled justice by a couple of hours. The cause of death was heart failure. She was--intemperate. Her daughter was with her at the end."

"Madame Barthlemi de Saint-Ivoy!"

"You know her, then?"

"I met her in a Yorkshire village at the same time as her mother. The other day, by chance, I ascertained her name and address from one of our village lads who recognized her in Amiens about a month ago."

"Well, you were about to say----"