Before he could draw out the contents, the girl caught his hand. “Wait!” she cried. “Wait! Have I not proved my right to that letter?”
Caruth shook his head. “Certainly not,” he decided. “So far as I can see, neither you nor I have any title to it, or any right to read it. Nor do I intend to read it further than to see whether the inside gives any clue to the man for whom it is intended.”
“Wait!” Tensely the girl’s hand fell on his arm. “If nothing else will avail,” she cried, “will not my entreaties do so. I beg you, I implore you, to give me that letter. It is nothing to you; it may easily be life or death to me. You do not know for whom it is meant. You are under no obligations to an unknown writer and an unknown addressee. Do not look into it farther. Give me the letter, I implore you!”
She leaned forward. Her violet eyes gleamed into his; her lips quivered, her form shook with the stress. “Oh!” she pleaded. “Give it to me. You will give it to me?”
A sudden passion flamed in Caruth’s veins—a passion that gripped and shook him. “By God!” he cried hoarsely. “You—you——”
The girl started back and dropped her hand. Then her lips curled. Men were all alike, after all. American men were no better than their European brothers. She had seen so many; so very many. Caruth would yield, and she would despise him for it. Yet she went on. “Give it to me,” she breathed.
“No!” Caruth’s voice rang out. “No! No! Oh, you women! You beautiful women! How easily you beguile men! How dare you do it? How dare you use beauty such as yours for such a purpose? How dare you use such tools to gain your selfish ends?”
“How dare I?” The girl’s form straightened till to Caruth’s gaze she seemed to tower above him. “How dare I?” Her voice was low and thrilling, but it did not quiver. “How dare I? I dare because my country calls me to do it. All that I am and have belongs to it. My future, my liberty, my life, are all at its service. I am entitled to that letter—I swear it. If you ask it, I will tell you everything, and in so doing put my life in your hands. Shall I do it?”
Caruth drew his hand across his eyes. “No!” he said hoarsely. “I believe you. Take the letter.”
Eagerly the woman reached out her hand, but before her fingers could close upon the envelope, the portières that hung between the apartment and an inner room clashed gently on their rings and Caruth’s valet pushed his way through them. “I beg pardon, sir!” he murmured deferentially.