"There, it is finished!" she said, smiling through her tears. "But the joy of your words was almost too great. I shall not behave like that again. And I shall not try to thank you. I think you understand--I cannot thank you--there are no words great enough." Stewart nodded, smilingly. "Yes; I understand," he said. "We have many things to do," she went on, rapidly, passing her handkerchief across her eyes with the gesture of one who puts sentiment aside. "First, the passport," and she caught it up from the chair on which she had laid it. "I would point out to you," said Stewart, "that there may be a certain danger in adding the words you mentioned." "But it is precisely for those words this blank space has been left." "That may be true; but unless your handwriting is identical with that on the rest of the passport, and the ink the same, the first person who looks at it will detect the forgery." "Trust me," she said, and drawing a chair to the table, laid the passport before her and studied it carefully. From the little bag she had carried on her arm, she took a fountain-pen. She tested it on her finger-nail, and then, easily and rapidly, wrote "accompanied by his wife" across the blank space below Stewart's name. Stewart, staring down over her shoulder, was astonished by the cleverness of the forgery. It was perfect. "There," she added, "let it lie for five minutes and no one on earth can tell that those words were not written at the same time and by the same hand as all the others." A sudden doubt shook her hearer. Where had she learned to forge like that? Perhaps, after all---- She read his thought in his eyes. "To imitate handwriting is something which every member of the secret service must learn to do. This, on your passport, is a formal hand very easily imitated. But I must rid myself of this pen." She glanced quickly about the room, went to the open fireplace and threw the pen above the bricks which closed it off from the flue. Then she came back, motioned him to sit down, and drew a chair very close to his. "Now we have certain details to arrange," she said. "Your name is Bradford Stewart?" "Yes." "Have you a sobriquet?" "A what?" "A name of familiarity," she explained, "used only by your family or your friends." "Oh, a nickname! Well," he admitted, unwillingly, "my father always called me Tommy." "Tommy! Excellent! I shall call you Tommy!" "But I detest Tommy," he objected. "No matter!" she said, peremptorily. "It will have to do. What is your profession?" "I am a surgeon." "Where do you live in America?" "At Baltimore, in the State of Maryland." "Where have you been in Europe?" "To a clinical congress at Vienna, and then back through Germany." "Perfect! It could not be better! Now, listen most carefully. The name of your wife is Mary. You have been married four years." "Any children?" asked Stewart. "Please be serious!" she protested, but from the sparkle in her eye Stewart saw that she was not offended.