“Suspicion!” I echoed angrily. “Of what, pray?”
The captain drew a long breath and, once more looking me straight in the face, replied:
“Well, of being a secret agent of the German Government—or to put it very bluntly, of being a spy!”
“Roseye a spy!” I shouted, starting up from my chair. “A most foul and abominable lie! How dare you cast any such imputation upon her?”
“It is, unfortunately, no imputation, Mr Munro,” replied the captain. “You naturally doubt the truth, but we have documentary evidence that the missing lady is not exactly the purely patriotic young person whom you have so long believed her to be. Since the war lots of men who have trusted pretty women have had many rude awakenings, I assure you.”
“I’ll believe nothing against Roseye!”
“Well,” answered Pollock, taking from his pocket an official envelope, “perhaps you will look at this!” and from the envelope he took a half sheet of dark-blue notepaper of a type and size used by ladies, and handed it across to me, saying:
“This was found in her card-case here. From Scotland Yard they sent it over to us this afternoon, and its real import we very quickly discovered.”
My eyes fell upon the paper, and I saw that it was covered with lines of puzzling figures in groups of seven, all written neatly in a distinctly feminine hand.
“Well,” I asked in surprise, “what does all this mean?”