The agent held up his hand. “There is no mistake. It may be possible to spare her the disgrace, the ignominy of public exposure. That, sir, rests with her--and with you. We recognize your position, Mr. Carstairs. There is a disposition on the part of the authorities to protect you. With that object in view, I am instructed to grant Mrs. Carstairs the privilege of remaining in her own room until tomorrow morning. We are to take no definite action tonight, unless, of course, you and she decide that it is best for her to accompany me to the--er--to headquarters. It is up to you and Mrs. Carstairs, sir.” Davenport Carstairs was a strong, virile character. He possessed the arrogance born of power and a confidence in himself that had never been shaken. His home was his stronghold, his wife its treasure. In his serene strength he could not conceive of discredit falling upon either. Instead of faltering, now that the first shock had been weathered, he drew himself up and faced the situation with a courage that excited the wonder and admiration of the man who came with evil tidings. “Be seated,” said he, indicating a chair. The man sat down. “You may be partially if not entirely ignorant of the nature of these charges. Am I right in assuming that you are not at liberty to discuss them with me?” “On the contrary, Mr. Carstairs, I have been advised to do nothing until I have talked the matter over with you. I am in possession of all the facts.” “Is the department content to allow me to pass judgment on my wife?” inquired Carstairs, with a touch of irony. He maintained a calm exterior,--at what cost no one but he will ever know. The secret service man made no response. “In any case, I shall have to ask you to explain everything to me before permitting you to approach my wife.” The agent, who shall be called Jones, nodded his head, and then leaned forward in his chair. “A man named Hodges was in your employ as a butler up to a fortnight ago. He had worked for you exactly seven weeks and one day. Do you know where he came from and who he really was, Mr. Carstairs?” “No. Mrs. Carstairs engages the servants here. Are you going to tell me that he was a German spy?” “Far from it, sir. 'He was a British secret service agent. His name was Bridgeford. He was killed by an automobile, but not accidentally as you have been led to believe. We have been looking for the driver of that car for two weeks. Last night we got him. He has confessed. Since six o'clock this evening three other men have been arrested,--all subordinate figures in the game. Before morning we expect to land at least one or two of the principal members of the shrewdest gang of spies operating in the name and interest of the Kaiser.” “Including my wife,” said Carstairs, lifting his eyebrows. Jones allowed the remark to pass without comment.