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“We are Americans and have lost our way.”

“You will find none about here,” the man answered, and spoke in English.

“We are in a fix, it seems.”

“Which is the way to St. Mark’s Square?” I asked. “I know my way from there.”

He gave us minute directions and we walked on.

“Those are police spies,” said my companion quietly, “and if we had not spoken to them, they would probably have followed us. But no one suspects Americans.”

“How well you speak English,” I said, off my guard for a moment.

“No better than you, monsieur,” she replied simply. “Your question in English was a great stroke!”

“You have been in England?”

“Yes, two or three times. I was educated there and in France. What a country of freedom is England. We shall get our carriage here,” she said a little later, and presently it came rumbling along slowly and stopped at a signal from her.

“We shall not be more than a few minutes now,” she said as we got in.

“You have not told me your name, mademoiselle?”

“I am Helga; and take the same surname as my cousin, M. Boreski—until my mission is accomplished.”