In this dilemma
I trusted to sheer blind luck--a rather thrilling business. As a
gray-headed sergeant stepped forward to welcome us, I looked him
unfalteringly in the eye, though I wondered if he would not say:
"Monsieur, kindly remove that childish travesty with which you are
trying to impose on justice. We know all about you. Your name is
Devereux Bayne. You are a German agent and intriguer; you have smuggled
papers; you have murdered a man and concealed his body. Unless you can
give a satisfactory explanation of all your actions since leaving New
York, your last hour has arrived!"
What he really said was:
"Mademoiselle's papers?" He spoke quite amiably, a catlike pretense, no
doubt.
Miss Falconer was no longer looking anxious. Her hands were steady; she
was even smiling as she produced two neat little packets that, on being
unfolded, proved to have all the air of permits, _laissez-passers_, and
police cards. Two nondescript photographs, which might have represented
almost any one, adorned them, and of these our sergeant made a
perfunctory survey.
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