“I may risk a puff or two. I have been told there is no passport like a pipe of tobacco. No—do not shut the bags. Leave them open as though we had fled hurriedly. And,” she added, crimsoning a little, “I think it would be well to disarrange the bed.”
Stewart flung back the covers and rolled upon it, while his companion cast a last look about the room. Then she picked up her little bag and took out the purse and the two letters.
“Which pocket of a man’s clothes is safest?” she asked.
“The inside coat pocket. There are two inside pockets in the coat you have on. One of them has a flap which buttons down. Nothing could get out of it.”
She took the coins from the purse, dropped them into the pocket, and replaced the purse in the bag. Then she started to place the letters in the pocket, but hesitated, looking at him searchingly, her lips compressed.
“My friend,” she said, coming suddenly close to him and speaking in the merest breath, “I am going to trust you with a great secret. The information I carry is in these letters—apparently so innocent. If anything should happen to me——”
“Nothing is going to happen to you,” broke in Stewart, roughly. “That is what I am for!”
“I know—and yet something may. If anything should, promise me that you will take these letters from my pocket, and by every means in your power, seek to place them in the hands of General Joffre.”
“General Joffre?” repeated Stewart. “Who is he?”
“He is the French commander-in-chief.”