"I do. And furthermore I assert that it was the work of Germany!"
Delcassé sprang from his chair, his face livid.
"The proof!" he cried. "The proof!"
"The proof, sir, is this: at five minutes before dawn, this morning, two strangers, attired as pedestrians, with knapsacks on their backs, stopped in the recess of the doorway of Number Ten, Quai de Cronstadt. They stepped well within the shadow, as though not wishing to be seen, and stood gazing out on the harbour. Directly before them, at a distance of not more than three hundred yards, La Liberté was moored. It was at her they stared, with eyes expectant and uneasy. At dawn, La Liberté blew up, and one of these men cried out some words of German."
"Unfortunately the person who overheard them does not know German. He understood only the first two words, 'Ach Gott!'"
"And the men?" cried Delcassé. "What became of them?"
"They strode rapidly away along the quay, and were lost to sight."
Delcassé dropped into his chair, his face dark with passion.
"What do you infer from this circumstance?" he demanded.