In the meantime men came and went, and Lance’s watchful eye followed the slightest movement made by each newcomer. At any moment some signal might give him a clue to the disclosures which the General declared seemed to be made daily.
A timid country lad entered, wiping the dew of embarrassment from his brow. After some awkward hesitation he conferred with one of the clerks, evidently stumbling and halting in his inquiries.
No word of the colloquy reached Lance’s ear, but he suddenly became aware of a message in the air—clear, deliberate, reiterated!
Fifty thousand English left Paris this morning. Destination, Arras.
An hour later the girl who somehow seemed different was confronted in the private quarters of Monsieur the General by Lance Allison, American detective. Bright-eyed and defiant, she smouldered under the guard’s restraint.
“You are an American!” There was curt reproach in the detective’s tone.
“Well, what of that?” she snapped.
“How came you a traitor to the Allies?”
Then, as she did not answer, he bowed to Monsieur the General. “This girl gave out her information to a young clod-hopper to-day. More than likely some other one yesterday and the day before, or to him in a different disguise. At any rate, they were men who could spell English—or American,” he added whimsically.
“But how? How, Monsieur le detective? He approached her not—nor even looked toward her.”