“I did not know that you expected anything in regard to me,” Ruth said. “Mrs. Folwell did not know I was coming until I arrived.”
“Ah! But your orders were given you—the thirtieth of last month, were they not?”
Ruth stiffened. The thirtieth of last month was the day upon which she had arrived in Paris from Compiègne, the day upon which she had visited Charles Gail and, upon her return to the Rue des Saints Pères, had met George Byrne. Only one order had been given her that day; and that order had been given by the German who struck down Byrne. No one else had known about that order but herself and the German; she had told Gerry and he might have told it to the French authorities. But she could not associate this sleek, sensuously unpleasant person, going by the name of Wessels, with anyone whom Gerry could have informed. She readily could connect him with the German who had for her attempted to strike Byrne dead; and she had been awaiting—impatiently awaiting—the German agent here at Lucerne who must accost her.
“Yes; the thirtieth,” Ruth said.
“Then why did you not come sooner?”
“I applied at once for permission,” Ruth defended herself. “It was delayed.”
“Ah! Then you had much difficulty?”
“Delay,” Ruth repeated. “That was all; though I may have been investigated.”
“You used Hull again to help you, I suppose.”
“Yes, I used Hull,” Ruth said.