"Suzette," I said slowly, "leave this man to me."
Then, glancing towards him, I saw what a terrible effect her denunciation had had upon him. Pale to the lips, he stood cowed, even trembling, for before him was the living witness of his crime.
I stood with my back to the door, barring his escape.
"Now," I said, "what is your defence?"
He was silent.
I repeated my question in a hard, distinct voice.
"Let's cry quits," he said in a low, hoarse tone. "I will preserve your secret—if you will keep mine. Will you not accept terms?"
"Not those," I replied promptly. "Suzette has been accused by Banfield, and by you, of the crime which you committed. She shall therefore name her own terms."
Realising that, by the fortunate discovery of the assassin of Madame Levitsky, she had at once freed herself from the trammels cast about her by Banfield, it was not surprising that the girl should stipulate as a condition of allowing the spy his freedom that he should hand over to me all the copies of the secret diplomatic correspondence which he possessed.
At first he loudly protested that he had none, but I compelled him to hand me the key of his despatch-box, and accompanying him to his room at the further end of the corridor, we searched and there found within the steel box a file of papers which he held ready to hand over to the Quai d'Orsay—the actual information of which I had been in such active search.