“It was intrusted to me by one of your agents who joined me at Aix-la-Chapelle.”
A sudden flame of excitement blazed into the cold eyes.
“May I ask your name?”
“Bradford Stewart.”
The man snatched up a memorandum from the desk and glanced at it. Then he sprang to his feet.
“Your pardon, Mr. Stewart,” he said. “I did not catch your name—or, if I did, my brain did not supply the connection, as it should have done. My only excuse is that I have so many things to think of. Pray sit down,” and he drew up a chair. “Where is the person who joined you at Aix?”
“I fear that she is dead,” answered Stewart, in a low voice.
“Dead!” echoed the other, visibly and deeply moved. “Dead! But no, that cannot be!” He passed his hand feverishly before his eyes. “I will hear your story presently—first, the message. It is a written one?”
“Yes, in the form of two letters.”
“May I see them?”