“I never sold any of the secrets. I did no harm.”
“Surely only because you had no opportunity. I understand that you signed a full confession.”
Ashenden spoke to her as amiably as he could, a little as though he were talking to a sick person, and there was no harshness in his voice.
“Oh, yes, I made a fool of myself. I wrote the letter the Colonel said I was to write. Why isn’t that enough? What is to happen to me if he does not answer? I cannot force him to come if he does not want to.”
“He has answered,” said Ashenden. “I have the answer with me.”
She gave a gasp and her voice broke.
“Oh, show it to me, I beseech you to let me see it.”
“I have no objection to doing that. But you must return it to me.”
He took Chandra’s letter from his pocket and gave it to her. She snatched it from his hand. She devoured it with her eyes, there were eight pages of it, and as she read the tears streamed down her cheeks. Between her sobs she gave little exclamations of love, calling the writer by pet names French and Italian. This was the letter that Chandra had written in reply to hers telling him, on R.’s instructions, that she would meet him in Switzerland. He was mad with joy at the prospect. He told her in passionate phrases how long the time had seemed to him since they were parted, and how he had yearned for her, and now that he was to see her again so soon he did not know how he was going to bear his impatience. She finished it and let it drop to the floor.
“You can see he loves me, can’t you? There’s no doubt about that. I know something about it, believe me.”
“Do you really love him?” asked Ashenden.
“He’s the only man who’s ever been kind to me. It’s not very gay the life one leads in these music-halls, all over Europe, never resting, and men—they are not much the men who haunt those places. At first I thought he was just like the rest of them.”
Ashenden picked up the letter and replaced it in his pocketbook.
“A telegram was sent in your name to the address in Holland to say that you would be at the Hôtel Gibbons at Lausanne on the 14th.”
“That is tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
She threw up her head and her eyes flashed.
“Oh, it is an infamous thing that you are forcing me to do. It is shameful.”
“You are not obliged to do it,” said Ashenden.
“And if I don’t?”
“I’m afraid you must take the consequences.”
“I can’t go to prison,” she cried out suddenly, “I can’t, I can’t; I have such a short time before me; he said ten years. Is it possible I could be sentenced to ten years?”
“If the Colonel told you so it is very possible.”
“Oh, I know him. That cruel face. He would have no mercy. And what should I be in ten years? Oh, no no.”
At that moment the train stopped at a station and the detective waiting in the corridor tapped on the window. Ashenden opened the door and the man gave him a picture-postcard. It was a dull little view of Pontarlier, the frontier station between France and Switzerland, and showed a dusty place with a statue in the middle and a few plane trees. Ashenden handed her a pencil.
“Will you write this postcard to your lover? It will be posted at Pontarlier. Address it to the hotel at Lausanne.”
She gave him a glance, but without answering took it and wrote as he directed.
“Now on the other side write: ‘Delayed at frontier but everything all right. Wait at Lausanne.’ Then add whatever you like, tendresses, if you like.”
He took the postcard from her, read it to see that she had done as he directed and then reached for his hat.
“Well, I shall leave you now, I hope you will have a sleep. I will fetch you in the morning when we arrive at Thonon.”
The second detective had now returned from his dinner and as Ashenden came out of the carriage the two men went in. Giulia Lazzari huddled back into her corner. Ashenden gave the postcard to an agent who was waiting to take it to Pontarlier and then made his way along the crowded train to his sleeping-car.
It was bright and sunny, though cold, next morning when they reached their destination. Ashenden, having given his bags to a porter, walked along the platform to where Giulia Lazzari and the two detectives were standing. Ashenden nodded to them.
“Well, good morning. You need not trouble to wait.”
They touched their hats, gave a word of farewell to the woman, and walked away.
“Where are they going?” she asked.
“Off. You will not be bothered with them any more.”
“Am I in your custody then?”
“You’re in nobody’s custody. I’m going to permit myself to take you to your hotel and then I shall leave you. You must try to get a good rest.”
Ashenden’s porter took her hand-luggage and she gave him the ticket for her trunk. They walked out of the station. A cab was waiting for them and Ashenden begged her to get in. It was a longish drive to the hotel and now and then Ashenden felt that she gave him a sidelong glance. She was perplexed. He sat without a word. When they reached the hotel the proprietor—it was a small hotel, prettily situated at the corner of a little promenade and it had a charming view—showed them the room that had been prepared for Madame Lazzari. Ashenden turned to him.
“That’ll do very nicely, I think. I shall come down in a minute.”
The proprietor bowed and withdrew.
“I shall do my best to see that you are comfortable, Madame,” said Ashenden. “You are here absolutely your own mistress and you may order pretty well anything you like. To the proprietor you are just a guest of the hotel like
