“It is a great pity poor Dr Jerrold died as he did,” the girl remarked thoughtfully at last. “I met him twice with you, and I liked him awfully. He struck me as so thoroughly earnest and so perfectly genuine.”
“He was, Elise. When he died—well—I—I lost my best friend,” and he sighed.
“Yes,” she answered. “And he was doing such a good work, patiently tracing out suspicious cases of espionage.”
“He was. Yet by so doing he, like all true patriots, got himself strangely disliked, first by the Germans themselves, who hated him, and secondly by the Intelligence Department.”
“The latter were jealous that he, a mere civilian doctor, should dare to interfere, I suppose,” remarked the girl thoughtfully.
“The khaki cult is full of silly jealousies and petty prejudices.”
“Exactly. It was a very ridiculous situation. Surely the man in khaki cannot pursue inquiries so secretly and delicately as the civilian. The Scotland Yard detective does not go about dressed in the uniform of an inspector. Therefore, why should an Intelligence officer put on red-tabs in order to make himself conspicuous? No, dearest,” he went on; “I quite agree with the doctor that the officials whose duty it is to look after spies have not taken sufficient advantage of patriotic civilians who are ready to assist them.”
“Why don’t you help them, Jack?” suggested the girl. “You assisted Dr Jerrold, and you know a great deal regarding spies and their methods. Yet you are always so awfully mysterious about them.”
“Am I, darling?” he laughed, carrying her hand tenderly to his lips and kissing it fondly.
“Yes, you are,” she protested quickly. “Do tell me one thing—answer me one question, Jack. Have you any suspicion in one single case?—I mean do you really know a spy?”