“Oh, that was quite clear. The English Foreign Office has been badly frightened and has used every effort with its secret agents in Berlin to get that information. It reached London the other day. And just before I left Scotland I knew the job was to be given to General von Stromberg. The rest was Kismet--the fortune of war--a jolly good piece of luck! Lindberg overheard through the microphone von Stromberg givin’ instructions to Wentz--so that His Excellency’s own weapons were turned against him. I was goin’ to waylay Wentz on the way to France, but circumstances prevented----” “It was I, Cyril,” she broke in pleadingly. “I didn’t know. I betrayed you.” “A trick,” he laughed, “invented in the Rameses family--but still useful.” “He frightened me,” she stammered. “I believed the message signed ‘Maxwell’ genuine.” “Not Maxwell,” he said gravely, “for Maxwell--a sore spot since the war began in the side of the War Office--Maxwell is dead.” “You----?” she exclaimed fearfully. “Yes,” he replied. “I told and they caught him. I couldn’t do so before. It’s war, Doris. It is a fair game. I ask no favors--nor do I give any.” She was silent a moment looking into the fire. “Yes, I understand--a terrible game with odds against----” And then, after a pause, “You say that we will get away. Won’t you tell me your plan?” He rose with a confident laugh. “Yes, I have a plan, but I’m not going to tell it now. You are going to sleep.” She laughed wearily and sat up. “And you? Where will you sleep?” “By the fire. I’ve got some thinkin’ to do. I’m not sleepy. I had eight hours last night. I’m going to watch.” He bent over her and gently made her lie down. “I will talk to you no more. You must go to sleep.” She sighed and stretched herself out while he covered her with his coat. Then he put a fresh log on the fire and sat beside her again. In a moment he heard her voice. “I hope you don’t mind my telling you, Cyril, that I love you a great deal.” “Not in the least,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t mind listenin’ while you said it all night. But----” “There. You’re going to insist on my sleeping again!” “Won’t you?” “I don’t seem to feel as if I could ever sleep again. You’re so cool, so calm, Cyril. How _can_ you be?” “No bally use gettin’ excited. Here we are snug as two bugs in a rug. We’ll slip through them some way.” “But where will we go?” He smiled. “I have a notion of goin’ to England.” His kind of quiet humor always put her on her mettle. “To England--?” She started up. “There won’t be much chance of your doin’ anythin’ tomorrow if you don’t get your sleep,” he insisted gently. “Do what I ask, Doris. Sleep you must.” “I’ll try. Good night, Cyril.”