“I suppose so.”
“But how did she know I had a passport?”
“Perhaps you told her.”
Yes, Stewart reflected, he had told her, and yet he was not altogether satisfied. When had he told her? Surely it was not until he returned from his tour of the town; then there was not time——
“Here is your passport,” said his companion, abruptly breaking in upon his thoughts. “Fold it up and place it in your pocket. And do not find it too readily when the police ask for it. You must seem not to know exactly where it is. Also pack your belongings. Yes, you would better include the slippers. Meanwhile I shall try to make myself a little presentable,” and she opened the tiny bag from which she had produced the pen.
“It seems to me,” said Stewart, as he proceeded to obey, “that one pair of slippers and one pair of stockings is rather scanty baggage for a lady who has been at Spa for a month.”
“My baggage went direct from Spa to Brussels,” she answered from before the mirror, “in order to avoid the customs examination at the frontier. Have you any other questions?”
“Only the big one as to who you really are, and where I’m going to see you again after you have delivered your report—and all that.”
His back was toward her as he bent over his bags, and he did not see the quick glance she cast at him.
“It is impossible to discuss that now,” she said, hastily. “And I would warn you that the servant, Hans, is a spy. Be very careful before him—be careful always, until we are safe across the frontier. There will be spies everywhere—a false word, a false movement, and all may be lost. Are you ready?”