The documents were certainly very ingeniously contrived so as to conceal the real purpose of the loan. I remarked this, and my companion, laughing lightly, said—
“Deception, to some extent, is always necessary in delicate diplomacy.”
The discovery that the mysterious woman—whose name she had withheld from me—was actually a secret agent of the autonomous Principality created by the Berlin Treaty—that turbulent State mostly notable for the assassination of its Ministers—was entirely unlooked for. On the night when accident had thrown us together, and she had smoothed my brow with her cool hand, I had believed her to be a young girl who had taken pity upon me in my helplessness; but the revelations she had made during that half-hour showed that there had been some firm purpose underlying it all.
She alone knew the truth of that tragic occurrence at The Boltons, and I saw that in this matter I had to deal with a very clever and ingenious woman.
I had now a double purpose in life—to discover Mabel, and to elucidate the mystery of the crime. Towards that end I intended to strive, and as I sat with my glance fixed upon those mysterious grey eyes, I endeavoured to form some plan of action.
“Madam,” I said gravely, at last, “as you appear not to place sufficient confidence in me to tell me your name, I regret that I can place no confidence in these documents.”
“My name!” she laughed. “Ah, of course; I had quite forgotten. There is no secret about it;” and from her purse she drew forth a folded, much-worn blue paper, which she handed to me.
It was an English passport, bearing the name of “Lucy Edna Grainger.”
“Grainger?” I repeated. “Then you are English?”
“Yes, I am legally a British subject, because my father was English. I was, however, born abroad.”