“I—I—merely guessed it,” she answered lamely, with a forced smile a moment later. “I’ve been reading the papers lately.”
“The papers have given no hint of any impending complication,” I answered abruptly, removing the cigarette from my lips and looking up at her keenly.
“But I read something the other day which stated that Russia and France had combined with the object of attacking England in the near future.”
I did not answer. I could only gaze at her, amazed at the calm, circumstantial manner in which she lied. That she had some knowledge of the political situation—of what character or extent I knew not—was certain, for other words she had let drop in unguarded moments had once or twice aroused within me increasing suspicion. When I reflected upon her alarm on hearing the strident cry of the newsman, I was compelled to admit that her fears were not genuine. The questions she put to me regarding the relative strengths of England and Russia, and the probable course of events, were naïve enough, but they were uttered, I knew, with a view to disarm any suspicion I might entertain.
At last, wearied of her eternal masquerade, I roused myself, tossed away my dead cigarette, and, declaring that in the circumstances my presence at the Foreign Office was imperative, suddenly said,—
“You asked me to come here this evening because you had something particular to say to me, Ella. You have not yet referred to it.”
“I wanted to ask you a question,” she exclaimed in a low tone, slowly moving towards me and bending until she placed her arm tenderly around my neck.
“Well, what is it?”
For a moment she remained silent in hesitation, but at last spoke in that harsh, strained voice that had so frequently puzzled me of late.
“I know you have investigated Dudley’s belongings,” she said. “And I wanted to know whether you discovered among them some scraps of paper bearing imitations of your own handwriting.”