“In what manner?”
“Well, as a secret agent.”
“In the employ of whom?”
“Of France.”
“Of France?” I echoed. “Impossible!”
“My dear Mr Ingram,” he protested, “I’m not in the habit of misleading you or of making statements which I can’t substantiate. I repeat that Miss Edith Austin, the lady who has been here with you this afternoon, is a French agent.”
“I can’t believe it!” I gasped, utterly staggered. “Why, she’s a simple, charming English girl, leading a quiet life in that sleepy little village, and scarcely seeing anybody for weeks together.”
“Exactly. I don’t deny that. But as her affection for you is prompted by ulterior motives—pray pardon me for saying so—you should be forewarned; and this is the more desirable in view of the fact which you yourself discovered.”
“What fact?”
“That she has a secret lover.”