“Your Excellency,” said she, “when this appointment was made, some days ago, I thought that it was merely to enable an insignificant woman to say that she had met a great dignitary and famous man. I think so no longer. It has assumed an international significance. I am here not as plain Madeline Spencer but as Madeline Spencer of the German Secret Service. It seems that a certain letter intended for the French Ambassador has gone astray, and has come into your possession; therefore I am to be asked to explain the matter, though I’ve never seen the letter nor know the cipher in which, I am told by Mr. Harleston, it is written. So what is it you would of me, your Excellency?”
“My dear Madame Spencer,” said the Secretary, “what you say as to the original reason for this little meeting, arranged by our mutual friend, Mr. Harleston, is absolutely correct—except that it was a mere man who was desirous of being presented to a beautiful and a famous woman. It seems, however, that certain circumstances have suddenly arisen that made it imperative for the meeting to be advanced half an hour—”
“What are those circumstances, may I ask?” she cut in.
“I shall have to request Mr. Harleston to answer. To be quite candid, Madame Spencer, I can only infer them; Mr. Harleston arranged them.”
She turned to Harleston with a mocking smile.
“I am listening, monsieur,” she inflected. “What is it you, or rather America, would of me?”
“The letter you have in your possession,” said Harleston.
“The letter!” she marvelled. “Why, Mr. Harleston, you know quite well that I never had the Clephane letter.”
“Very true; we have the Clephane letter, as you style it; and we have also a translation. What we want from you is the letter that Captain Snodgrass took from his mail box at the Rataplan this afternoon, and gave to you in the taxi on the way to the Chateau.”
She smiled incredulously.