“I dare not tell you yet, Geoffrey,” she whispered, in a strained, terrified voice.
“You know well how much keen anxiety the loss of that document caused me,” I said. “Why did you not tell me that it was in your keeping?”
“It was not in my keeping,” she protested. “I recovered it only a few days before we parted.”
“But you knew something of its whereabouts?” I argued.
“I was not certain,” she vaguely replied, her slim fingers picking at the bands of pearl passementerie across the flimsy chiffon of her bodice.
With an expression of disbelief I turned from her.
“Ah, Geoffrey,” she cried wildly, “I am fully conscious of what your thoughts must be. Now that you have discovered my true position, that I am a Russian, you believe I had a hand in the theft of the Anglo-German Convention; that by my machinations its text was transmitted to St Petersburg—eh?”
No answer passed my lips, but I think I bowed my head in confirmation of her fevered words.
“Well, it is untrue, as you will learn some day. It is untrue, I swear,” she exclaimed with terrible earnestness. “Instead of endeavouring to bring suspicion and opprobrium upon you, and disaster upon the nations of Europe, I have striven both night and day to clear away the ill effect produced by the dastard revelations made to our Ministry in St Petersburg. Remember that the single spark required to fire the mine and convulse the world from Calais to Pekin was not applied; the Tzar refrained from declaring war. Some day you, and through you, the British Government, will know the reason a recourse to arms was averted. When you are made aware of the truth, then no longer will you misjudge me.”
She spoke with a fervency that was entirely unfeigned; her bright eyes met mine with unwavering glance, and with a quick movement she had placed one hand upon her breast as if to allay the palpitation there. Her heart was full; upon her fair face was an expression of mingled anxiety and dread, and her bejewelled hands trembled.