"Then you must go with his knowledge—make up some story—a relative ill or something—to account for your journey to Berlin."
She seemed undecided. Therefore I repeated my suggestion, well knowing that the sweet-faced girl could, if she wished, obtain for us the knowledge which would place power in the hands of Great Britain—power to upset the machinations of our enemies.
Mine was becoming a profession full of subterfuge.
Her breast heaved and fell in a long-drawn sigh. I saw that she was wavering.
She sipped her tea in silence, her eyes fixed upon the shady trees opposite.
"Suzette," I exclaimed at last, "your lover's name is Armand Thomas, clerk at the head office of the Compte d'Escompte. He believes you to be the niece of the rich American, Henry Banfield, little dreaming of your real position."
"How do you know that?"
I smiled, telling her that I had made it my business to discover the facts.
"You love him?" I asked, looking her straight in the face.
"Yes," was her serious response.