“Yes, in a sense.”
“Have you seen her recently?”
“Not for ten years.”
Obviously, this answer was disconcerting. It was evident, too, that Martin’s name was not on a typed list which the other man had scanned with a quick eye. Martin determined to clear up an involved situation.
“I take it that you are connected with the police department?” he said. “Well, I have come from the British front at Armentières to inquire into the uses to which this house has been put. A number of British officers have been entertained here. Our people want to know why.”
He left it at that for the time being, but the Frenchman’s manner became perceptibly more friendly.
“May I examine your papers?” he said.
Martin handed over the bundle of “permis de voyage,” which everyone without exception must possess in order to move about the roads of western France in wartime.
“Ah!” said the official, his air changing now to one of marked relief, “this helps matters greatly. My name is Duchesne, Captain Grant—Gustave Duchesne. I belong to the Bureau de l’Intérieur. So you people also have had your suspicions? There can be no doubt about it—the Baroness von Edelstein was a spy of the worst kind. The mischief that woman did was incalculable. Of course, it was hopeless to look for any real preventive work in England before the war; but we were caught napping here. You see, the widow of a British officer, a lady who had the best of credentials, and whose means were ample, hardly came under review. She kept open house, and had lived in Paris so long that her German origin was completely forgotten. In fact, the merest accident brought about her downfall.”
One of the policemen came in with a written memorandum, which M. Duchesne read.