“Then where did you get it?” he persisted. “Why shouldn’t you tell me?”
“I will tell you,” she answered, but her voice was almost inaudible. “It is right that you should know. You gave the signature to the man who examined your passport on the terrace of the Hotel Continental at Cologne, and who recommended you to the Kölner Hof. He also was one of ours.”
Stewart was looking at her steadily.
“Then in that case,” he said, and his face was gray and stern, “it was I, and no one else, you expected to meet at the Kölner Hof.”
“Yes,” she answered with trembling lips, but meeting his gaze unwaveringly.
“And all that followed—the tears, the dismay—was make-believe?”
“Yes. I cannot lie to you, my friend.”
Stewart passed an unsteady hand before his eyes. It seemed that something had suddenly burst within him—some dream, some vision——
“So I was deliberately used,” he began, hoarsely; but she stopped him, her hand upon his arm.
“Do not speak in that tone,” she pleaded, her face wrung with anguish. “Do not look at me like that—I did not know—I had never seen you—it was not my plan. We were face to face with failure—we were desperate—there seemed no other way.” She stopped, shuddering slightly, and drew away from him. “At least, you will say good-by,” she said, softly.