Lavendale pushed him suddenly back into his room and closed the door. 'You idiot!' he thundered. 'She isn't coming back! Now pull yourself together, do you hear? Listen to me. You're half drunk, but I am going to tell you something that ought to sober you. That woman Félanie is a born German, and a spy. What have you given her?' Even through the bluster of his stormy denial, Lenwade was obviously shaken. 'What bally rot!' he exclaimed. 'She's a Frenchwoman to her finger-tips. They all love her. Didn't you hear her sing--Marseillaise? Frenchwoman to her finger----' 'Shut up!' Lavendale interrupted fiercely. 'I tell you I knew her nine years ago under another name. She is a German, and it's my belief she's a spy, she and Anders. What have they worked on you? Out with it, man!' Lenwade swayed on his feet. He looked back across his shoulder to a roll-top writing desk which stood open. Then he snatched up a tumbler from the table by his side, filled it with soda-water and drank it off. 'Lavendale, you're not in earnest!' 'In God's own earnest, man! Quick, if you want to repair the mischief you've done, tell me what you gave her?' 'I've lent her my plans,' Lenwade faltered. 'I've been two months making them, up above the clouds. I'm the only real draughtsman amongst those who can keep high enough--plans of the German fortifications and the railways behind, from the coast beyond where our lines touch the French. I say, Lavendale----!' There was no Lavendale. He sprang down the stairs three at a time, out into the street and at a double into Piccadilly, where he sprang into a passing taxicab. 'Milan! Look sharp!' he ordered. The man drove swiftly through the half-empty streets. With a little gasp of relief Lavendale recognized his own car waiting in the courtyard. Without a pause, however, he pushed open the swing doors of the Court and leaned over the counter towards the night porter. 'What is Madame Félanie's number?' he asked. 'Sixty-four, sir,' the man replied, glancing dubiously at Lavendale. 'Monsieur Anders is up there now, however.' Lavendale stepped into the lift, ascended to the third floor, hurried down the dimly-lit corridor and paused outside the door of number sixty-four. He listened for a moment. Inside he could hear voices. Then he pressed the bell. There was a moment's hesitation, then Anders' voice speaking in French. 'Lenwade, perhaps.' He heard Félanie's scornful little laugh, the flutter of her garments as she crossed the room. The door was suddenly opened and she stood there, looking out at him. She gazed at this unexpected visitor and the colour slowly faded from her cheeks and the light from her eyes. Lavendale made his way firmly across the threshold and closed the door. Félanie caught at her throat. 'What do you want here, sir?' Anders demanded.