duty demanded.

She nodded a sweet acceptance of my invitation, and together we
sat down at the little table of the officers' mess.
"You slept well last night?" I asked.

"All night," she replied. "I am a splendid sleeper."

Her manner was so straightforward and honest that I could not
bring myself to believe in her duplicity; yet--Thinking to
surprise her into a betrayal of her guilt, I blurted out: "The
chronometer and sextant were both destroyed last night; there is
a traitor among us." But she never turned a hair by way of
evidencing guilty knowledge of the catastrophe.

"Who could it have been?" she cried. "The Germans would be crazy
to do it, for their lives are as much at stake as ours."

"Men are often glad to die for an ideal--an ideal of patriotism,
perhaps," I replied; "and a willingness to martyr themselves
includes a willingness to sacrifice others, even those who
love them. Women are much the same, except that they will go
even further than most men--they will sacrifice everything, even
honor, for love."

I watched her face carefully as I spoke, and I thought that I
detected a very faint flush mounting her cheek. Seeing an
opening and an advantage, I sought to follow it up.

"Take von Schoenvorts, for instance," I continued: "he would