“Françoise!” broke in Martin.
“Exactly—Françoise Dupont. Well, Madame Dupont died in 1913. But she had spoken of her former mistress to a nephew, and this man, a cripple, is now a Paris postman. He is a sharp-witted peasant, and, as he grew in experience, was promoted gradually to more important districts. Just a week ago he took on this very street, and when he saw the name recalled her aunt’s statements about Mrs. Saumarez. He informed the Sûreté at once. Even then she gave us some trouble. Her letters were printed, not written, and she could post them in out-of-the-way places. However, we trapped her within forty-eight hours. Have you a battery of four 9.2’s hidden in a wood three hundred meters north-west of Pont Ballot?”
Martin was so flabbergasted that he stammered.
“That—is the sort of thing—we don’t discuss—anywhere,” he said.
“Naturally. It happens to be also the sort of thing which Mrs. Saumarez drew out of some too-talkative lieutenant of artillery. Luckily, the fact has not crossed the border. We have the lady’s notepaper and her secret signs, so are taking the liberty to supply the Boches with intelligence more useful to us.”
“Then you haven’t grabbed the Pontarlier man?”
“Not yet. We give him ten days. He has six left. When his time is up, the Germans will have discovered that the wire has been tapped.”
Martin forced the next question.
“What of Madame de Saint-Ivoy?”
“Her case is under consideration. She is working for the Croix Rouge. That is why she was in Amiens. Her husband has been recalled from Verdun. He, by the way, is devoted to her, and she professes to hate all Germans. Thus far her record is clean.”