'I think that's all that's the matter with him,' he pronounced--'fracture of the leg. We'd better take him back to the hospital.'
'Leave him alone,' she ordered. 'Come here with me at once.'
Lavendale obeyed mutely. She sprang up into the dismantled car and began feeling the cushions.
Lavendale turned them inside out. There were maps, a contour book, an automobile handbook, more garage receipts, an odd glove--nothing of interest. Suddenly Suzanne gave a little cry. She bent closer over the driving cushion, pulled at a little hidden tab, opened it. There reposed a letter in a thick white envelope, the letter of their quest. Lavendale flashed his electric torch upon it. It was addressed in plain characters:--
'Look here,' he insisted, 'we've found what we want. We must see about that man now.'
They lifted him into their car and drove him back to the hospital. Lavendale left money, called at the police-station and gave information about the accident. Then they ran up to the hotel and stood side by side for a moment in the dimly-lit, stuffy coffee-room. He drew the letter from his pocket.
She glanced at the seal--huge and resplendent.
'It is only the first part of our task that is done,' she sighed, 'yet everything is ready for the second. That letter will be delivered. It is the answer we want.'
She took the letter and placed it in the small bag she was carrying.
'Some sandwiches, please,' she begged, 'and then London.'
Twenty-four hours later they sat in her little sitting-room. Suzanne was restless and kept glancing at the clock, lighting cigarettes and throwing them away. Often she glanced at Lavendale, imperturbable, a little troubled.
'I don't know,' he answered simply. 'This business has its dark side, you know. I was thinking of it from your point of view. You are going to open a friend's letter--that's what it comes to. You're on fire to see whether your friend, whom you should trust, is as honourable as you think him. It leaves an unpleasant flavour, you know.'
'My friend,' she said, 'you have something yet to learn in our profession. It is this--honour and joy, conduct itself, idealism, all those things that make up the mesh of life, lose their significance to the man or woman who works for his country as I have done, as you have commenced to do. I am for France alone, and for France's sake I have no character. For France's sake I have sent a dummy messenger to the Prince. For France's sake I shall open the reply. It may tell me everything, it may tell me nothing, but one must be warned.'