her clothes, but that she looked it.

"That was Madame de Vassart's companion, wasn't it?" asked Speed.

"Yes, Sylvia Elven ... I don't know what she is--I know what she
was--no, I don't, either. I only know what Jarras says she was."

Speed raised his eyebrows. "And what was that?"

"Actress, at the Odeon."

"Never heard of her being at the Odeon," he said.

"You heard of her as one of that group at La Trappe?"

"Yes."

"Well, when I was looking for Buckhurst in Morsbronn, Jarras
telegraphed me descriptions of the people I was to arrest at La
Trappe, and he mentioned her as Mademoiselle Sylvia Elven, lately of
the Odeon."

"That was a mistake," said Speed. "What he meant to say was that she
was lately a resident of the Odeonsplatz. He knew that. It must have
been a telegraphic error."

"How do you know?" I asked, surprised.

"Because I furnished Jarras with the data. It's in her dossier."

"Odeon--Odeonsplatz," I muttered, trying to understand. "What is the
Odeonsplatz? A square in some German city, isn't it?"

"It's a square in the capital of Bavaria--Munich."

"But--but she isn't a German, is she? _Is she_?" I repeated, staring
at Speed, who was looking keenly at me, with eyes partly closed.

There was a long silence.

"Well, upon my soul!" I said, slowly, emphasizing every word with a
noiseless blow on the table.

"Didn't you know it? Wait! Hold on," he said, "let's go
slowly--let's go very slowly. She is partly German by birth. That
proves nothing. Granted that Jarras suspected her, not as a social
agitator, but as a German agent. Granted he did not tell you what he
suspected, but merely ordered her arrest with the others--perhaps
under cover of Buckhurst's arrest--you know what a secret man, the
Emperor was--how, if he wanted a man, he'd never chase him, but run in
the opposite direction and head him off half-way around the world. So,
granted all this, I say, what's to prove Jarras was right?"

"Does her dossier prove it? You have read it."

"Well, her dossier was rather incomplete. We knew that she went about
a good deal in Paris--went to the Tuileries, too. She was married
once. Didn't you know even _that_?"

"Married!" I exclaimed.

"To a Russian brute--I've forgotten his name, but I've seen him--one
of the kind with high cheek-bones and black eyes. She got her divorce
in England; that's on record, and we have it in her dossier. Then,
going back still further, we know that her father