“You fear his revenge?”
She nodded, adding in a low tone, “He knows my secret.”
“And I, your lover, do not,” I observed reproachfully. “Well,” I continued, “answer me truly one question. Tell me whether, when you called upon me on the last occasion in Paris, you stole a letter from my desk—a letter from the Princess von Leutenberg?”
“From the woman who loves you?” she cried huskily. “Yes, I did.”
“And you stole it at Bertini’s instigation? He told you where it would be found, the colour of the envelope, and the coronet and cipher upon it, did he not?”
She nodded in the affirmative.
“And that same night you met him in a small café at Batignolles, and handed him the letter? He was with his accomplice, Rodolphe Wolf.”
“It is just as you say,” she answered. “But how did you know this?”
“Because I myself watched you,” I answered. “That letter was stolen to be used against the Princess.”
“And if it is, what then? That woman who offered to betray her country in return for your love is my rival!” she cried fiercely.