“Look on the table, Countess. You will find there some papers you will perhaps recognize.”
She took a step toward the table and glanced down. The code-book lay there. Also the letter she had sent by Peter Niburg. She made no effort to disclaim them.
“I recognize them,” she said clearly.
“You acknowledge, then, that they are yours?”
“I acknowledge nothing.”
“They bear certain indications, madame.”
“Possibly.”
“Do you realize what will happen, madame, if these papers are turned over to the authorities?”
She shrugged her shoulders. And now Number Seven rose, a tall figure of mystery, and spoke at length in a cultivated, softly intoned voice. The Countess, listening, felt the voice vaguely familiar, as were the burning eyes behind the mask.
“It is our hope, madame,” he said, “that you will make it unnecessary for the Committee of Ten to use those papers. We have no quarrel with women. We wish rather a friend than an enemy. There be those, many of them, who call us poor patriots, who would tear down without building up. They are wrong. The Committee of Ten, to those who know its motives, has the highest and most loyal of ideals—to the country.”