They were alone in the small office of the hospital. He said crisply and in excellent English:
"Mademoiselle has need of me?"
"I have something to tell you, Monsieur—something that I think may be of importance. Yet, as we Americans say, I may be merely stirring up a mare's nest."
"Ah, I understand the reference," he said, smiling. "Let me be the judge of the value of what you tell me, Mademoiselle. Proceed."
Swiftly she told him of her visit to the field hospital so much nearer the battle line than this quiet institution at Clair, and, in addition, told him of Nicko, the chocolate peddler, and his dual appearance.
"There are two of the men. They dress exactly alike. I was suspicious of the peddler the very first time I saw him. No Frenchman—not even a French soldier—bows as I saw him bow."
"Ha!" ejaculated the secret agent.
"He bows from the hips—the bow of a German military man. I—I have seen them bow before," Ruth hesitated, remembering Major Henri Marchand. "You understand?"
"But, yes, Mademoiselle," said the Frenchman, his eyes flashing.
"Then," she went on, "I saw the man—or supposedly the same man—a second time. He bowed very differently—just as an ordinary humble French peasant might bow."