"Actress, at the Odéon."
"Never heard of her being at the Odéon," he said.
"You heard of her as one of that group at La Trappe?"
"Yes."
"Well, when I was looking for Buckhurst in Morsbronn, Jarras
telegraphed me descriptions of the people I was to arrest at La
Trappe, and he mentioned her as Mademoiselle Sylvia Elven, lately of
the Odéon."
"That was a mistake," said Speed. "What he meant to say was that she
was lately a resident of the Odeonsplatz. He knew that. It must have
been a telegraphic error."
"How do you know?" I asked, surprised.
"Because I furnished Jarras with the data. It's in her dossier."
"Odeon--Odeonsplatz," I muttered, trying to understand. "What is the
Odeonsplatz? A square in some German city, isn't it?"
"It's a square in the capital of Bavaria--Munich."
"But--but she isn't a German, is she? _Is she_?" I repeated, staring
at Speed, who was looking keenly at me, with eyes partly closed.
There was a long silence.
"Well, upon my soul!" I said, slowly, emphasizing every word with a
noiseless blow on the table.
"Didn't you know it? Wait! Hold on," he said, "let's go
slowly--let's go very slowly. She is partly German by birth. That
proves nothing. Granted that Jarras suspected her, not as a social
agitator, but as a German agent. Granted he did not tell you what he
suspected, but merely ordered her arrest with the others--perhaps
under cover of Buckhurst's arrest--you know what a secret man, the
Emperor was--how, if he wanted a man, he'd never chase him, but run in
the opposite direction and head him off half-way around the world. So,
granted all this, I say, what's to prove Jarras was right?"
"Does her dossier prove it? You have read it."
"Well, her dossier was rather incomplete. We knew that she went about
a good deal in Paris--went to the Tuileries, too. She was married
once. Didn't you know even _that_?"
"Married!" I exclaimed.
"To a Russian brute--I've forgotten his name, but I've seen him--one
of the kind with high cheek-bones and black eyes. She got her divorce
in England; that's on record, and we have it in her dossier. Then,
going back still further, we know that her father was a Bavarian, a
petty noble of some sort--baron, I believe. Her mother's name was
Elven, a Breton peasant; it was a mésalliance--trouble of all sorts--I
forget, but I believe her uncle brought her up. Her uncle was military
attaché of the German embassy to Paris.... You see how she slipped
into society--and you know what society under the Empire was."
"Speed," I said, "why on earth didn't you tell me all this before?"
"My dear fellow, I supposed Jarras had told you; or that, if you
didn't know it, it did not concern us at all."
"But it does concern--a person I know," I said, quickly, thinking of
poor Kelly Eyre. "And it explains a lot of things--or, rather, places
them under a new light."
"What light?"
"Well, for one thing, she has consistently lied to me. For another, I
believe her to be hand-in-glove with Karl Marx and the French
leaders--not Buckhurst, but the real leaders of the social revolt;
_not as a genuine disciple, but as a German agent_, with orders to
foment disorder of any kind which might tend to embarrass and weaken
the French government in this crisis."
"You're inclined to believe that?" he asked, much interested.
"Yes, I am. France is full of German agents; the Tuileries was not
exempt--you know it as well as I. Paris swarmed with spies of every
kind, high and low in the social scale. The embassies were nests of
spies; every salon a breeding spot of intrigue; the foreign
governments employed the grande dame as well as the grisette. Do you
remember the military-balloon scandal?"
"Indistinctly.... Some poor devil gave a woman government papers."
"Technically they were government papers, but he considered them his
own. Well, the woman who received those papers is down-stairs."
He gave a short whistle of astonishment.
"You are sure, Scarlett?"
"Perfectly certain."
"Then, if you are certain, that settles the question of Mademoiselle
Elven's present occupation."