Suddenly halting, he pushed open the window, and looked out upon the hot, overcast night. Paris was still bright with her myriad electric lights, and the glaring cafés on the boulevards were still as busy as during the hour of the absinthe. The City of Pleasure never sleeps.
He leaned over the balcony, gasping for air; but in an instant I was behind him, saying:
“Someone may be watching outside. Is it really wise for you to be seen?”
“No,” he answered. “You’re right, Ingram;” and he turned back and closed the long windows opening upon the balcony. “A bold front must be maintained through all.” He walked to his table, took up the despatch, and, striking a vesta, ignited it, holding it until it was completely consumed. Then he cast the blackened tinder into the grate, growing in a single instant calm again. “You are right, Ingram,” he repeated rather hoarsely. “Our enemies must not obtain any inkling that we know the truth, if we are to effect a successful counter-plot. In this affair I detect the hand of a woman. Is not that your opinion?”
“I must admit that it is,” I responded. “I believe there is a female spy somewhere.”
“But who is she?” he cried anxiously.
“Ah!” I said, “we have yet to discover her name.”
“It is not Yolande?” he asked dubiously.
“No. Of that I feel quite certain.”
“But you are certain of nothing else?”