Would they actually go so far as to kill him in France, with the chance of the French police seizing that envelope before they could seize it and clear out with it to Berlin? Would they hazard the risk of France obtaining cognizance of a matter which so vitally concerned Germany, rather than permit that information to reach England?
Halkett lay on his back and smoked and did not know.
But he was slowly coming to the conclusion that one thing was now imperative: the envelope must not be found upon his person if he were killed.
But what on earth to do with it until it could be safely transferred to the proper person he had not the slightest idea.
That evening, as he changed trains at the frontier, in the lamp-lit dimness of the station platform he was fired at twice, and not hit.
A loud outcry naturally ensued; a stampede of passengers who tried to escape, a rush of others who desired to see what had happened—much hubbub and confusion, much shouting in several languages.
But nobody could be found who had fired two shots from a revolver, and nobody admitted that they had been shot at.
And so, as nobody had been hit, the gendarmes, guards, and railway officials were in a quandary.
And the train rolled out of the station with Halkett aboard, a prey to deepest anxiety concerning his long thin envelope.
CHAPTER I