THE YELLOW DOVE
fortable close to the fire, after which he quickly took the package of papers out of his pocket and examined them. The single papers were military orders of no importance to one Lieutenant Orstmann, obviously the dead messenger. Hammersley put them aside, breaking the seal of the heavy envelope and examining its contents carefully. First a letter of instructions to His Excellency von Stromberg, signed in the bold hand of the Emperor of Germany himself. He showed her the signature and explained its contents and all thought of weariness went from her mind.
“It is—it’s what you came for?”
“Yes,” he replied, smiling grimly. “I’ve got it.”
“Is it—it isn’t so important that you can’t tell me?” she asked timidly.
He laughed, put his arm around her and held her for a moment tenderly. She had endured where a man might have flinched, and yet at this moment she was all woman—timid, weary unto death, but still curious. It was the master impulse.
“No,” he smiled. “You’ve jolly well earned the right to know. I’ll tell you.”
He was so big, so strong, so certain of himself that she wondered how, for a moment even, she could have thought him other than he was. With a sudden impulse of pride and tenderness, she rose, put her arms around his neck and bending his head down to hers kissed him upon the lips. He caught her to him and held her in his arms.
“O Cyril,” she murmured, “that I could ever have failed in my belief in you, that I could ever have thought that you were false! Why didn’t you tell me the truth? I would have kept your secret.”
“It was impossible, dear. It was too big a thing
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