and he replied without
hesitation. She nodded. Then she turned to Norgate and laughed softly.

"You see how perfect the system is," she said. "I was followed here,
passed on to your floor-waiter. You are a spy, are you not?" she added,
turning to the man. "But of course you are!"

"Madame!" the man protested. "I do not understand."

"You can go away," she replied. "You can tell Herr Selingman in your
morning's report that I came to Mr. Norgate's rooms at an early hour in
the morning and spent an hour talking with him. You can go now."

The man withdrew without remark. He was a quiet, inoffensive-looking
person, with sallow complexion, suave but silent manners. Norgate closed
the door behind him.

"A victim of the system which all Europe knows of except you people,"
she remarked lightly. "Well, after this I must be careful. Walk with me
to my hotel."

"Of course," he assented.

They made their way along the silent corridors to the lift, out into the
streets, empty of traffic now save for the watering-carts and street
scavengers.

"Will there be trouble for you," Norgate asked at last, "because of
this?"

"There is more trouble in my own heart," she told him quietly. "I feel
strangely disturbed, uncertain which way to move. Let me take your
arm--so. I like to walk like that. Somehow I think, Mr. Francis Norgate,
that that little fracas in the Cafe de Berlin is going to make a great
difference in both our lives. I know now what I had begun to believe.
Like all the trusted agents of sovereigns, I have become an object of
suspicion. Well, we shall see. At least I am glad to know that there is
some one whom I can trust. Perhaps to-morrow I will tell you all that is
in my heart. We might even, if you wished it, if you were willing to face
a few risks, we might even work together to hold back the thunder. So!
Good night, my friend," she added, turning suddenly around.

He held her hand for a moment as they stood together on the pavement
outside her hotel. For a single moment he fancied that there was a change
in that curious personal aloofness which seemed so distinctive of her. It
passed, however, as she turned from him with her usual half-insolent,
half gracious little nod.

"To-morrow," she directed, "you must ring me up. Let it be at
eleven o'clock."

CHAPTER XVII

The Ambassador glanced at the clock as he entered his library to greet
his early morning visitor. It was barely nine o'clock.

"Dear