"He has been a friend of my father's for years. They were in Russia together at one time—and then Paris, Vienna—oh, everywhere. It has always been the same; in each country they have found out things that other Governments have been willing to pay for. At least, the doctor has. The rest of us, my father, myself, Hoffman"—she shrugged her shoulders—"we are his puppets, his tools. Everything we have done has been planned and arranged by him."
There was a short silence.
"How long have you been here?" I asked. "What brought you to England?"
"We have been here just over three years," she answered slowly. "There was a man in London that Dr. McMurtrie and my father wanted to find. Eight years ago he betrayed them in St. Petersburg."
A sudden idea—so wild as to be almost incredible—flashed into my mind.
I moistened my lips. "Who was he?" I asked steadily.
She shook her head. "I don't know his name. I only know that he is dead. I think Dr. McMurtrie would kill any one who betrayed him—if he could."
I crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. I felt strangely excited.
"And after that," I said quietly, "I suppose the doctor thought he might as well stop here and do a little business?"
"I think it was suggested to him from Berlin. He had sent them all sorts of information when we were in Paris, and, of course, as things are now, they were still more anxious to get hold of anything about the English army or navy." She paused. "What they specially wanted were the plans of the Lyndon-Marwood torpedo."