"What more natural," cried the patron, "than that the brave captain should be eager to read the sweet confession of your love?" Madame missed not a word which dribbled from the lips of the poor, puzzled patron, who contributed the comic sauce which titillated her humorous palate. The patron to her was a sheer joy. "Why did you want it?" repeated Madame sternly. "Because," said Rust, "you said that it contained the most important of secrets." "What have you to do with secrets which concern the fate of nations at war?" "Nations! War!" muttered the patron. "What words are these to find upon the lips of lovers? By now they should, had they not both been quite mad, have forgotten war in their mutual embraces." Rust was silent, considering what he should say. He had not the wit to invent a plausible story, and to such men there is only one safe rule--when in doubt, tell the truth. He told the truth. "I wanted that paper because I am a member of the Secret Service." "Of Germany?" snapped Madame, flashing violet lightning from her eyes. Sensation! The two French women broke into screams of rage, dreadful to hear; the patron raised his clenched hands, and roared like a furious beast. Rust, a brave man, shrank for a long, startled moment. His flesh quivered, as if it felt fierce French nails fasten into it. He saw the blood-lust flame in the eyes which searched his face. He trembled, but spoke up firmly. "No. The Secret Service of England." "Liar!" roared the patron. "_Menteur! Espion_! Foul seducer of a desolate _veuve de France_! Die, traitor! Madame, raise your pistol; shoot--shoot instantly for the honour of France!" The man, a fat, comfortable bourgeois, was transfigured with frightful, murderous rage. He had become a figure almost heroic. But Madame did not shoot. In ten seconds her swift brain had recalled the whole series of incidents during her commerce with Rust; she penetrated to the heart of the mystery, and immediately became convinced that he spoke the truth. "No," said she. "_Monsieur le patron_ and you, _mes demoiselles_, cease your cries. You do the brave Capitaine Rouille a very grave injustice for which you must pray his forgiveness _sur le champ_. He is a soldier of France, and of our noble Allies, the English. He is an officer of the English Secret Service. The mistake was mine, for which, _mon capitaine_, I implore your pardon."