“About this Mrs. Saumarez you spoke of just now,” said the subaltern when they were beyond the closed door of the dugout. “Is she the widow of one of our fellows, a Hussar colonel?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know she is living in Paris?”
“Well, I heard some few years since that she was residing there.”
“She’s there now. She runs a sort of hostel for youngsters on short leave. She’s supposed to charge a small fee, but doesn’t. And there’s drinks galore for all comers. She’s extraordinarily popular, of course, but I—er—well, one hates saying it. Still, you made me sit up and take notice when you mentioned the Intelligence Department. Mrs. Saumarez has a wonderful acquaintance with the British front. She tells you things—don’t you know—and one is led on to talk—sort of reciprocity, eh?”
Martin drew a deep breath. He almost dreaded putting the inevitable question.
“Is her daughter with her—a girl of twenty-one, named Angèle?”
“No. Never heard Mrs. Saumarez so much as mention her.”
“Thanks. We’ve done a good night’s work, I fancy. And—this for yourself only—there may be a scrap to-morrow afternoon.”
“Fine! I want to stretch my legs. Been in this bally hole nine days. Well, here’s your corporal. Good-night, sir.”