“The Prussian Guard?” cried No. 13 in an awed voice. “Are you also of the Prussian Guard, comrade?”
He had risen from his seat and there was something almost of majesty about his thin, ungainly figure as he drew himself to his full height.
“Ay, comrade, I was,” replied Mortimer.
“Then,” cried No. 13, “you are...”
“No names, comrade,” warned Mortimer, “no names, I beg!”
“No names, no names!” repeated the other and relapsed into his seat in a reverie.
“How I got to England,” Mortimer continued, “matters nothing; how I fulfilled my mission is neither here nor there. But I recovered the gem and the proof...”
He thrust a hand into the inner pocket of his coat and plucked out a white paper package sealed up with broad red seals.
Desmond held his breath. It was the white paper package, exactly as Barbara had described.
“Look at it well, Behrend,” said Mortimer, holding it up for the young man to see, “it cost me a man’s life to get that. If it had sent twenty men to their death, I should have had it just the same!”