France -- History -- 1914-1940 -- Fiction; War stories; World War, 1914-1918 -- Fiction
Though the stairs were dim, I could see something glittering in the hand
of the person mentioned, who was impersonating for the evening a dashing
young captain of the general staff. My fingers strayed toward my pocket
and my own revolver. Then I pried them away, temporarily, and took a
provisional seat.
“That’s sensible,” Franz von Blenheim approved me blandly. “Now, Miss
Falconer, you know what I’m here for, isn’t that so? Just hand me those
papers and you’ll be as free as air. I’ll take myself off; you’ll never
see me again probably. That’s a fair bargain, isn’t it? What do you
say?”
I was sitting close to the girl, so close that her soft furs brushed
me and I could feel the flutter of her breath against my cheek. At
Blenheim’s proposition I glanced at her. She was measuring him steadily.
Then she looked at me, and her eyes seemed to hold some message that I
could not read.
“Perhaps, Miss Falconer,” I interposed, “you have not quite grasped the
situation.” I was sparring for time; she wanted to convey something to
me, I was sure. “It is rather complicated. This gentleman has turned
out to be a well-known agent of the kaiser. He was traveling on the _Re
d’Italia_, I gather, on a forged passport, and had helped himself to my
baggage as the most convenient way of smuggling some papers to the other
side.”
He grinned assentingly.
“You owe me one for that,” he owned. “You see, it was my second trip
on that line, and I thought they might have me spotted; I had a lot of
things to carry home,--reports, information, confidential letters, and I
concluded they would be safer with a nice, innocent young man like you.
It didn’t work, as things went. It was just a little too clever. But if
you hadn’t mixed yourself up with this young lady, and tossed packages
overboard for her under the noses of the stewards, and got yourself
suspected and your baggage searched, I should have turned the trick!”
His share in the tangled episode on board the steamer was unfolding. I
understood now why he had sprung to my rescue in the salon when I was
accused. Naturally he had not wanted my traps searched, considering what
was in them.
“As you say, you were a little too clever,” I agreed.
His eyes glinted viciously.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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