A word in another letter by von Morgen caught his eye:
"I am glad you have met General von Kuhne," said the writer. "Kindly convey to him my compliments, and tell him his nephew, who is a prisoner here, is well and happy. His Excellency's presence in England means much. I throb with interest to know what will happen. But perhaps, Alice, meine herzliebste, I shall soon be free, and shall soon see you! Preparations for my escape are going better than ever. I have for my servant a very intelligent fellow from the Black Forest. Do not let your English 'Ogre' love you too much. Think of me always and the little week when you were my wife at Palm Beach. I kiss you behind the ear.—KURT."
A smile crossed John's face as he finished reading this amorous missive.
"Here," thought he, "we get a pretty complete clue to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's earlier history before she came from America. It shows also where Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's affections are really centred."
John had already read enough to know that these letters must be delivered as swiftly as possible into Dacent Smith's hands. One or two had slipped to the floor as he scanned them hurriedly. He bent down to pick them up, and saw very neatly written on a slip of paper the key of the code which Mrs. Monmouth had used in her newspaper advertisements. As Smith's department already knew this code, the discovery was not of much importance, but on another sheet of paper which also lay on the rich rose and grey carpet he discovered a second code with its accompanying key. His attention fixed upon this with swift intensity. He had at last made a discovery of importance, and he became suddenly animated by the hope that his department had hit upon the manner of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's swift communication with the enemy. He reached out, took up the slip of paper—and then suddenly became still. For an instant he remained motionless, his mind working with lightning rapidity. A sound had come to him from Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's boudoir, a soft impact of footsteps upon the thick carpet.
John could scarcely believe his ears. He had carefully locked the door of the corridor boudoir when he entered the room. As a further protection, he had left the key in the lock. And now this sound! He was still on his hands and knees, and very slowly he turned his head. At that instant the boudoir door opened towards him, and a man enveloped in a heavy tweed overcoat and wearing a soft grey hat stood in the aperture. At sight of John on his knees near the bed, the new-comer stopped dead and stared with wide-amazed eyes.
John leapt to his feet. Mechanically, at the same moment the figure at the door removed his grey hat, and the thin hair, the parchment-like face, and the thin, sharp nose of Mr. Beecher Monmouth stood revealed. Moved by his passionate desire to be with his wife, the elderly politician had unexpectedly hurried from Ireland to spend the week-end in London. Beecher Monmouth's expression was one of simple and complete amazement. He blinked two or three times; then, suddenly recovering himself, drew shut the door behind him, and stood with his back to it. His sallow face grew pale with swift kindled hate and rage.
"Mr. Treves," he demanded, drawing in a sharp breath, "what are you doing here? Are you here with my wife's knowledge?"
"No," answered John frankly. "Your wife hasn't the faintest idea that I am here."
"You mean you came to the house in her absence?"