“What!” shouted Jack, astounded: “am I actually charged, then, with being a German spy?”
“I’m afraid that is so.”
“But I have no knowledge of any other of the enemy’s agents, save those which were discovered by Jerrold and reported to Whitehall by him.”
“Ah! the evidence, I think, goes a little further—documentary evidence which has recently been placed in the hands of the War Office.”
“By whom, pray?”
“You surely don’t think it possible for me to reveal the name of the informant in such a case?” was the cold reply.
Jack Sainsbury stood aghast and silent at the grave charge which had been preferred against him. It meant, he knew, a trial in camera. He saw how entirely he must be discredited in the eyes of the world, who could never know the truth, or even the nature of his defence.
He thought of Elise. What would she think? What did she think when Littlewood told her—as he had told her, no doubt—of how he had been mysteriously hustled into a taxi, and driven off?
For the first time a recollection of that strange anonymous warning which his well-beloved had received crossed his memory. Who had sent that letter? Certainly some friend who had wished his, or her, name to remain unknown.
“The whole thing is a hideous farce,” he cried savagely, at last. “Nobody can prove that I am not what I here allege myself to be—an honest, loyal and patriotic Englishman.”