"Your signature was all the writer had," she explained. "Your handwriting had to be inferred from that." "Where did you get my signature? Oh, from the blank I filled up at Aix, I suppose. But no," and he looked at the card again, "the postmark shows that it was mailed at Cologne last night." "The postmark is a fabrication." "Then it was from the blank at Aix?" "No," she said, and hesitated, an anxiety in her face he did not understand. "Then where _did_ you get it?" he persisted "Why shouldn't you tell me?" "I will tell you," she answered, but her voice was almost inaudible. "It is right that you should know. You gave the signature to the man who examined your passport on the terrace of the Hotel Continental at Cologne, and who recommended you to the Kölner Hof. He also was one of ours." Stewart was looking at her steadily. "Then in that case," he said, and his face was gray and stern, "it was I, and no one else, you expected to meet at the Kölner Hof." "Yes," she answered with trembling lips, but meeting his gaze unwaveringly. "And all that followed--the tears, the dismay--was make-believe?" "Yes. I cannot lie to you, my friend." Stewart passed an unsteady hand before his eyes. It seemed that something had suddenly burst within him--some dream, some vision---- "So I was deliberately used," he began, hoarsely; but she stopped him, her hand upon his arm. "Do not speak in that tone," she pleaded, her face wrung with anguish. "Do not look at me like that--I did not know--I had never seen you--it was not my plan. We were face to face with failure--we were desperate--there seemed no other way." She stopped, shuddering slightly, and drew away from him. "At least, you will say good-by," she said, softly. Dazedly Stewart looked at her--at her eyes dark with sadness, at her face suddenly so white---- She was standing near the window, her hand upon the curtain. "Good-by, my friend," she repeated. "You have been very good to me!" For an instant longer, Stewart stood staring--then he sprang at her, seized her---- "Do you mean that you are going to leave me?" he demanded, roughly. "Surely that is what you wish!" "What I wish? No, no! What do I care--what does it matter!" The words were pouring incoherently from his trembling lips. "I understand--you were desperate--you didn't know me; even if you had, it would make no difference. Don't you understand--nothing can make any difference now!" She shivered a little; then she drew away, looking at him. "You mean," she stammered; "you mean that you still--that you still----" "Little comrade!" he said, and held out his arms. She lifted her eyes to his--wavered toward him---- "Halt!" cried a voice outside the window, and an instant later there came a heavy hammering on the street door. CHAPTER IX THE FRONTIER