“I was acting under orders, Captain Bolland,” he said.
“Not Bolland, but Grant,” laughed Martin. “I, too, have changed my name, but for a more honorable reason.”
The words seemed to irritate von Struben.
“I did noding dishonorable,” he protested. “I was dere by command. If it wasn’t for your d—d fleet, I would have lodged once more in de Elms eighdeen monds ago.”
“I know,” said Martin. “We found your map, the map which Angèle stole because you wouldn’t take her in the car the day we went on the moor.”
In all likelihood the prisoner’s nerves were on edge. He had gone through a good deal since being hauled into the shell hole, and was by no means prepared for this display of intimate knowledge of his past career by the youthful looking Briton who had manhandled him so effectually. Be that as it may, he was so disconcerted by the mere allusion to Angèle that a fantastic notion gripped Martin. He pursued it at once.
“We English are not quite such idiots as you like to imagine us, major,” he went on, and so ready was his speech that the pause was hardly perceptible. “Mrs. Saumarez—or, describing her by her other name, the Baroness von Edelstein—was a far more dangerous person than you. It took time to run her to earth—you know what that means? when a fox is chased to a burrow by hounds—but our Intelligence Department sized her up correctly at last.”
Now this was nothing more than the wildest guessing, a product of many a long talk with Elsie, the vicar, and General Grant during the early days of the war. But von Struben was manifestly so ill at ease that he had to cover his discomfiture under a frown.
“I have not seen de lady for ten years,” he said.
This disclaimer was needless. He had been wiser to have cursed Angèle for purloining his map.