Chevrial was undoubtedly a spy himself.
And, as he found this answer, Dan wondered that it had not occurred to him long before. For it furnished the clue upon which Chevrial's words and hints and looks and warnings were strung together as on a thread!
There could be no doubt about it: Chevrial was a spy, engaged in some desperate plot—no ordinary plot, for a Prince and Admiral of the German Empire were also engaged in it, and heaven alone knew how many others!
There was one thing to be done at once. He must go to Kasia Vard and confess that he had been outwitted. And he trembled as he thought what the loss of that little box would mean to her! Why had he been so dense, why had he not suspected....
Telling himself that self-accusations would do no good, he finished dressing hurriedly, let himself out, and ran downstairs without waiting to call the elevator. At the front door he met Marshall, whose face brightened at sight of him.
"So you're all right again, sir?" he said. "I'm glad of that!"
"Yes," and Dan slipped a bill into his hand. "I had a little shock that sort of upset me. Many thanks for looking after me, Marshall. I'll not forget it."
"That's all right, sir. Thank you, sir. Hope you had a good time?"
"Splendid. Come up and see me to-morrow. I brought a little memento for you from that awful place called Paris!" and leaving Marshall staring, he ran down the steps to the street, sought the nearest subway station, and twenty minutes later mounted the steps of the house on West Sixty-fourth Street, whose address Kasia had given him—a quiet house in a quiet neighbourhood. His finger was trembling as he touched the bell. How should he ever face her!
A negro boy answered the ring.