“I don’t know,” Ruth admitted, and accompanied him, in no wise offended, back to the old bridge over the Reuss; then to the Mühlenbrücke with its Dance of Death; next he took her away to the Glacier Garden. While they had been in the town with many people close by, his manner to Ruth had not been unusually offensive; but when they were away alone, he became more familiar and he took to uncovert appraisal of her face and figure. “You are younger than I had expected,” he commented to her, apropos of nothing which had gone before but his too steady scrutiny of her face and her figure. “I did not know that you expected anything in regard to me,” Ruth said. “Mrs. Folwell did not know I was coming until I arrived.” “Ah! But your orders were given you--the thirtieth of last month, were they not?” Ruth stiffened. The thirtieth of last month was the day upon which she had arrived in Paris from Compiègne, the day upon which she had visited Charles Gail and, upon her return to the Rue des Saints Pères, had met George Byrne. Only one order had been given her that day; and that order had been given by the German who struck down Byrne. No one else had known about that order but herself and the German; she had told Gerry and he might have told it to the French authorities. But she could not associate this sleek, sensuously unpleasant person, going by the name of Wessels, with anyone whom Gerry could have informed. She readily could connect him with the German who had for her attempted to strike Byrne dead; and she had been awaiting--impatiently awaiting--the German agent here at Lucerne who must accost her. “Yes; the thirtieth,” Ruth said. “Then why did you not come sooner?” “I applied at once for permission,” Ruth defended herself. “It was delayed.” “Ah! Then you had much difficulty?” “Delay,” Ruth repeated. “That was all; though I may have been investigated.” “You used Hull again to help you, I suppose.” “Yes, I used Hull,” Ruth said. Her heart was palpitating feverishly and the compression in her throat almost choked her while she fought for outward calm. She was a German girl, she must remember; she had come from her great peril; she had passed it; this was relief and refuge with one of her own before whom, at last, she could freely speak; for--though she dared not yet fully act upon the conviction--she no longer doubted at all that this Wessels was the enemy agent who was to control her henceforth. How much did he know about her, or about the girl she was supposed to be? He knew that she had been ordered here on the thirtieth of last month; he knew that she had at times “used” Gerry Hull. “We have him now, you know,” Wessels said, watching her with his disagreeable, close scrutiny. “He’s captured?” Ruth said. She had remembered that she must have no real concern for the fate of an enemy pilot whom she had “used.”