“No,” smiled Lance, “but he had his ear cocked in her direction.” He turned to the seething girl. “Now, make a clean breast of it, Miss. You are done for. What evil spirit prompted treachery in one born under the Stars and Stripes?”
Suddenly the smouldering fire burst into the flame of speech.
“’Twas Jean Armand, the low-down dog! Pretended to love me—me! Kissed me—took my hard-earned money for his own comfort. And then—the day he went to the front—he married Elise, a stupid, wax-faced doll!... Then I swore to betray France as he had betrayed me—and I have done it.”
“But how?” The General’s question was addressed to the detective.
“By the clicks of her typewriter, Monsieur. She practised a peculiar jerky touch so that it would become unnoted. Then when a spy came in—was the hand on the heated brow the signal, I wonder?—she talked to him by the dots and dashes of the Morse code with as much clearness as if the words were breathed into his ear.”
“Yes, and it took an American to find me out,” she glowed with strange exultation. “These conceited Frenchies were all at sea.... And—Jean, the husband of the fat Elise, fell yesterday under a charge from troops I sent to meet his regiment—so—I don’t care what you do to me, now. My work is done!”
IN A GARDEN
By Catherine Runscomb
Dick Halcomb stood waiting on the shady station platform. A little groom appeared, suddenly and breathlessly.
“Sorry to be late, sir,” he gasped. “Mrs. Paige and Miss Laura have gone to Mrs. Vingut’s garden party, and left word for you to join them.”