The night was dark but fine, and the crossing smooth. Louise, wrapped in furs, abandoned her private cabin directly they had left the harbor, and had a chair placed on the upper deck. Von Behrling found her there, but not before they were nearly half-way across. She beckoned him to her side. Her eyes glowed at him through the darkness.

“You are not looking after me, my friend,” she declared. “By myself I had to find this place.”

Von Behrling was ruffled. He was also humbly apologetic.

“It is those idiots who are with me,” he said. “All the time they worry.”

She laughed and drew him down so that she could whisper in his ear.

“I know what it is,” she said. “You have secrets which you are taking to London, and they are afraid of me because I am a Servian. Tell me, is it not so? Perhaps, even, they think that I am a spy.”

Von Behrling hesitated. She drew him closer towards her.

“Sit down on the deck,” she continued, “and lean against the rail. You are too big to talk to up there. So! Now you can come underneath my rug. Tell me, are they afraid of me, your friends?”

“Is it without reason?” he asked. “Would not any one be afraid of you—if, indeed, they believed that you wished to know our secrets? I wonder if there is a man alive whom you could not turn round your little finger.”

She laughed at him softly.

“Ah, no!” she said. “Men are not like that, nowadays. They talk and they talk, but it is not much they would do for a woman’s sake.”

“You believe that?” he asked, in a low tone.

“I do, indeed. One reads love-stories—no, I do not mean romances, but memoirs—memoirs of the French and Austrian Courts—memoirs, even, written by Englishmen. Men were different a generation ago. Honor was dear to them then, honor and position and wealth, and yet there were many, very many then who were willing to give all these things for the love of a woman.

“And do you think there are none now?” he whispered hoarsely.

“My friend,” she answered, looking down at him, “I think that there are very few.”

She heard his breath come fast between his teeth, and she realized his state of excitement.

“Mademoiselle Louise,” he said, “my love for you has made me a laughing-stock in the clubs of Vienna. I—the poverty-stricken, who have nothing but a noble name, nothing to offer you—have dared to show others what I think, have dared to place you in my heart above all the women on earth.”

“It is very nice of you,” she murmured. “Why do you tell me this now?”

“Why, indeed?” he answered. “What have I to hope for?”

She looked along the deck. Not a dozen yards away, two cigar ends burned red through the gloom. She knew very well that those cigar ends belonged to Streuss and his friend. She laughed softly and once more she bent her head.

“How they watch you, those men!” she said. “Listen, my friend Rudolph. Supposing their fears were true, supposing I were really a spy, supposing I offered you wealth and with it whatever else you might claim from me, for the secret which you carry to England!”

“How do you know that I am carrying a secret?” he asked hoarsely.

She laughed.

“My friend,” she said, “with your two absurd companions shadowing you all the time and glowering at me, how could one possibly doubt it? The Baron Streuss is, I believe, the Chief of your Secret Service Department, is he not? To me he seems the most obvious policeman I ever saw dressed as a gentleman.”

“You don’t mean it!” he muttered. “You can’t mean what you said just now!”

She was silent for a few moments. Some one passing struck a match, and she caught a glimpse of the white face of the man who sat by her side—strained now and curiously intense.

“Supposing I did!”

“You must be mad!” he declared. “You must not talk to me like this, Mademoiselle. I have no secret. It is your humor, I know, but it is dangerous.”

“There is no danger,” she murmured, “for we are alone. I say again, Rudolph, supposing this were true?”

His hand passed across his forehead. She fancied that he made a motion as though to rise to his feet, but she laid her hand upon his.

“Stay here,” she whispered. “No, I do not wish to drive you away. Now you are here you shall listen to me.”

“But you are not in earnest!” he faltered. “Don’t tell me that you are in earnest. It is treason. I am Rudolph Von Behrling, Secretary to the Chancellor.”

Again she leaned towards him so that he could see into her eyes.

“Rudolph,” she said, “you are indeed Rudolph Von Behrling, you are indeed the Chancellor’s secretary. What do you gain from it? A pittance! Many hours work a day and a pittance. What have you to look forward to? A little official life, a stupid official position. Rudolph, here am I, and there is the world. Do I not represent other things?”

“God knows you do!” he muttered.

“I, too, am weary of singing. I want a long rest—a long rest and a better name than my own. Don’t shrink away from me. It isn’t so wonderful, after all. Bellamy, the Englishman, came to me a few hours ago. He was Dorward’s friend. He knew well what Dorward carried. It was not his affair, he told me, and interposition from him was hopeless, but he knew that you and I were friends.”

“You must stop!” Von Behrling declared. “You must stop! I must not listen to this!”

“He offered me twenty thousand pounds,” she went on, “for the packet in your pocket. Think of that, my friend. It would be a start in life, would it not? I am an extravagant woman. Even if I would, I dared not think of a poor man. But twenty thousand pounds is sufficient. When I reach London, I am going to a flat which has been waiting for me for weeks—15, Dover Street. If you bring that packet to me instead of taking it to the Austrian Embassy, there will be twenty thousand pounds and—”

Her fingers suddenly held his. She could almost hear his heart beating. Her eyes, by now accustomed to the gloom, could see the tumult which was passing within the man, reflected in his face. She whispered a warning under her breath. The two cigar ends had moved nearer. The forms of the two men were now distinct. One was leaning over the side of the ship by Von Behrling’s side. The other stood a few feet away, gazing at the lights of Dover. Von Behrling staggered to his feet. He said something in an angry undertone to Streuss. Louise rose and shook out her furs.

“My friend,” she said, turning to Von Behrling, “if your friends can spare you so long, will you fetch one of my maids? You will find them both in my cabin, number three. I wish to walk for a few moments before we arrive.”

Von Behrling turned away like a man in a dream. Mademoiselle Idiale followed him slowly, and behind her came Von Behrling’s companions.

The details of the great singer’s journey had been most carefully planned by an excited manager who had received the telegram announcing her journey to London. There was an engaged carriage at Dover, into which she was duly escorted by a representative of the Opera Syndicate, who had been sent down from London to receive her. Von Behrling seemed to be missing. She had seen nothing of him since he had descended to summon her maids. But just as the train was starting, she heard the sound of angry voices, and a moment later his white face was pressed through the open window of the carriage.

“Louise,” he muttered, “I am on fire! I cannot talk to you! I fear that they suspect something. They have told me that if I travel with you they will force their way in. Even now, Streuss comes. Listen for your telephone to-night or whenever I can. I must think—I must think!”

He passed on, and Louise, leaning back in her seat, closed her eyes.