“Married?” echoed Gerard.
“Yes—husband in America, or was. She may now be the wife of the man who calls himself Harry Van Santen. He’s a precious scoundrel, the worse of the two, if anything.”
Gerard was appalled. The thought that Miss Davison had been living under the same roof with these dangerous criminals was terrible, and he stammered out something of his thoughts.
The colonel glanced at him quickly, and nodded.
“Only a woman of the finest pluck and the most indomitable spirit could have done it. The strain must have been tremendous,” he said. “However, we couldn’t have brought things to a head without her help.”
“To play the spy—on the people who thought she was their friend!” stammered Gerard.
“That’s not exactly the case,” returned the colonel in a voice too low for his niece to hear. “She helped to keep the house going. I know, for we supplied the money.”
Gerard uttered an exclamation.
Then he sat back as if stunned.
“Then she is—a detective!” he almost gasped.