“Doesn’t it mean something to you that I came,” she went on breathlessly, “that I could forget--what happened--that the love that was in my heart for you was greater than my hatred of what you are? I came so that you could know it by the difficulty, the danger that I ran. I don’t care what others may think of me. The only thing that matters is to have you again. You don’t know what it cost me to come. I am not the kind to be held so lightly, Cyril. I have forgotten my pride, even my sense of what is fitting for a girl to do, in the hope that you will listen to me.” “Yes,” he murmured, “but not now, Doris. You must go back.” “Not yet----” she protested. “I--I have much to do----” he said. “That messenger--O Cyril--you mustn’t. Come back with me--tonight--now----” “I can’t,” he muttered. “It--it is important for me to stay here----” She loosened his arms and stood away from him, peering down into the cove where clouds of black smoke were belching from the funnels of the black vessel. The water of the cove was churning in its wake and its prow was turning toward the harbor mouth. Suddenly she saw Cyril start and peer around him in the darkness. “Who sent you here?” she heard his voice in a strangled whisper at her ear. “No one,” she denied again, “I followed you.” “That isn’t possible, Doris,” he said quickly. “I have reasons for knowing. You were here before I came. Rizzio told you---- He knew what was to happen--he was the only one who could have known.” “Why?” Her curiosity sent all subterfuge flying. She could see his pale face in the moonlight. “Because it was Rizzio who sent this messenger to meet me.” “Rizzio!” The mystery was deepening. “I can’t understand.” He hesitated a long moment before replying, as though weighing something in his mind. “I’ll tell you this much,” he said at last. “You’ve a right to know. Rizzio told you that he was an agent of the English Government. It’s my word against his. You can believe me or not if you like. Rizzio is a spy of Germany!” “Impossible! John Rizzio----” she whispered aghast. He laughed. “The pot callin’ the kettle black--what? It’s the truth.” “But Rizzio! What object would he have in betraying England? A man of his position!” “That’s the kind of men England’s enemies want,” put in Cyril dryly. “But he has no need of money. Not money. Impossible!” “No, not money. There are other things that John Rizzio values more than money.” “What?” He caught her by the arm impressively to make his meaning clear. “You don’t know the passion of collectors. They would sell their souls for the things they want. The things that seem impossible are the things they want the most.” “But I don’t understand.” “After the war Rizzio is to be permitted to ‘buy’ Rubens’s ‘Descent from the Cross’ from the German Government.” “Oh!” she gasped in horror. A new idea of the terrible possibilities of duplicity was borne to her. But she couldn’t believe. “How do you know this?” she asked. He laughed.