iced us in
heated discussion.

The officer approached, but von Rausch, finding himself in a corner,
quickly produced an envelope containing the tracing and handed it to me,
urging:

"Remain silent, Nye. Say nothing. You have promised."

I broke open the envelope, and after satisfying myself he had not
deceived me, I placed it safely in my breast-pocket, as further evidence
of the work of the Kaiser's spies amongst us.

Then, with excuses to the constable, I swung the car into the yard of
the White Horse Hotel, where the spy descended, and with a fierce
imprecation in German he hurried out, and I saw him no more.

At midnight I was in Ray's chambers, in Bruton Street, and we rang up
Mr. Henry Seymour, who had, we found, returned to his house in Curzon
Street from Edgcott only a couple of hours before.

In ignorance that spies had obtained the secret of the _Neptune_ or
improved _Dreadnought_, he would not at first believe the story we told
him.

But when in his own library half an hour later we handed him back the
tracing, he was compelled to admit the existence of German espionage in
England, though in the House of Commons only a week before he had
scorned the very idea.

CHAPTER VIII

THE GERMAN PLOT AGAINST ENGLAND

"When last I had the pleasure of meeting mademoiselle, both her
nationality and her name were--well--slightly different, eh?" I
remarked, bending forward with a smile.

From her pretty lips rang out a merry ripple of laughter, and over her
sweet face spread a mischievous look.

"I admit the allegation, M'sieur Jacox," was her rather saucy response
in French. "But I had no idea you would again recognise me."

"Ah, mademoiselle, beauty such as yours is not universal, and is always
to be remembered," I said, with an expression of mock reproval.

"Now, why do you flatter me--you?" she asked, "especially after what
passed at Caux."

"Surely I may be permitted to admire you, Suzette? Especially as I am
now aware of the truth."

She started, and stared at me for a moment, a neat little figure in
black. Then she gave her shoulders a slight shrug, pouting like a
spoiled child.

There were none to overhear us. It was out of the season in Paris, and
on that afternoon, the 15th of August, 1908, to be exact, we had driven
by "auto" into the Bois, and were taking our "five o'clock" under the
trees at Pre Catalan, that well-known restaurant in the centre of the
beautiful pleasure wood of t