"You have sought me to tell me all this that I have thought for months. That I have felt. That in my heart I have known as surely as that night follows day. You have sought _me_," he added reflectively. The stranger leant still further towards him, and the man thrilled at the contiguity. So close was she that her breath fanned his cheek, and he found himself gazing into the eager, beautiful eyes. "And have I not done right? Have I not done right to come to you, who have felt, and thought, and known these things for months--if I can show you even more than in your worst moments you have ever dreamed of?" It was an intense moment. Its intensity for the man was well-nigh overpowering. Was this wonderful creature some brilliant siren luring him to destruction for very wantonness, or in the interest of others? Was she just as she represented, just an ardent patriot, to whom chance had revealed some damaging secret of his country's enemies, or was she merely a woman endowed with superlative beauty exercising her attraction in those enemies' interests? These things flashed through his brain, even as those feelings of sex stirred his blood and made for denial. For a moment the mental side of him rose dominant. "You are a foreigner," he challenged, in a voice he hardly recognized as his own. "I am a Pole." The admission came promptly. "You speak English--perfectly," he persisted in the same voice. "I am--glad." "Where were you--during the war?" "In England." The questions and answers flew back and forth without a semblance of hesitation. "Yes, yes." Then the man mused. "There were thousands of foreigners at large in England--then." "But not all were--spies." The man lowered his eyes. A flush stole up to his brow. It was a flush of shame. "I--I beg your pardon," he said. The mind had yielded to the man. "Why should you? Your country should be first in your thoughts. You have not hurt me." Ruxton passed one hand across his broad, fair forehead. "But you--a Pole. It seems----"