Soon the big car stopped. The chauffeur thrust a whistle between his lips, blowing a trilling blast.
Jack Benson changed color somewhat. This sounded suspicious—a signal in the woods. It was doubly suspicious after the hints that Mr. Graham had given the young submarine captain.
"Do not jump—do not be afraid," laughed Mlle. Nadiboff, rather maliciously. "Nothing in the way of danger threatens."
Almost immediately the chug-chug of another auto was heard, just ahead up the narrow road. Then into sight glided a small runabout, which sat M. Lemaire, all by himself. That Frenchman stopped his car, next waving one hand gayly to those in the larger car.
Then, lifting his hat most courteously to the young woman, M. Lemaire stepped over to the other car. The Russian woman spoke in some tongue, the like of which Benson had never heard before. It was Arabic, a language that both of these spies understood perfectly. What she said was:
"The boy is yours. Do what you can with him. I admit that I have failed. I have no hope of being able to do anything with him."
M. Lemaire's eyebrows contracted briefly, in a slight frown. Then, forcing a pleasant look to his face, the Frenchman asked, in a tone easy enough with courtesy:
"Captain Benson, will you step out and talk with me a few moments? I have much to say."
"I can listen," nodded Jack, looking steadily, shrewdly into the eyes of this male spy. "At the same time, sir, this whole proceeding, meeting, request and all are so unusual that I think you cannot do better than to give me a frank explanation of what this all means."
"Means?" murmured the Frenchman, as though not comprehending.