By Jove, that was the very thing the secret-service man had said!

"You admit you were born abroad. You claim to be bound for France, but
you sail for Italy. And you are rather a soldier's type, tall, well
set-up, good military carriage. You'd make quite a showing in a field
uniform, I should say."

"In a fiddlestick!" I snapped, weary of the situation. "So would you--so
would our friend the Italian reservist there. I'm an average American,
free, white, and twenty-one, with strong pro-Ally sympathies and a
passport in perfect shape. This is all nonsense, but of course there
is something back of it. What has been your real reason for deviling me
ever since I entered this room?"

The lieutenant was studying my face.

"Mr. Bayne," he said slowly, "do you care to tell me the nature of the
package you threw across the rail the first night out?"

I heard a gasp from the group behind me, a squeal of joy from
McGuntrie, a quick, low-drawn breath that surely came from the girl.
Preternaturally cool, I thought rapidly.

"What's that you say? Package?" I repeated, trying to gain time.

"Yes, package!" said the Englishman, sharply. "And we'll dispense with
pretense, please. These are war-times, and from common prudence the
Allies keep an eye on all passengers who choose to sail instead of
staying at home as we prefer they should. Captain Cecchi here reports