Westerham held the whisky to her lips again, and again she rallied slightly.
“The papers,” she said faintly, “were deposited at the poste-restante, St. Martin's-le-Grand, in my name. But Melun really thought you had discovered where they were and took them away. There was not a single place in which we could hope to hide them safely. It was I who thought of your boots.
“I did it,” she said, with a wan little smile at Westerham, “partly to save you. I knew that so long as you were safe the papers were safe.
“Melun was so certain that he would win,” she went on wearily, “I don't think he really thought of doing you any injury. It struck him that it would be an immense joke after he had got his way to tell Lord Penshurst that the man who was trying to find the papers had them in his possession all the time. I think sometimes he was mad.”
Madame paused, and her eyes contracted as though with pain.
“Forgive!” she gasped. Then her eyes became fixed and staring.
It was Westerham who drew the dead woman's eyelids down.
It was long past dawn when they reached Downing Street, and Lord Penshurst at once sent in cipher a short message to the Czar, informing his Majesty of the recovery of the papers.
Afterwards, in the Premier's own room, Westerham sat for a short while with Kathleen and Lord Penshurst. But little was said, for, just as some sorrows are too deep for tears, so there is some gratitude beyond thanks.