Napier had the very soundest conviction that, however poorly Singleton thought, or pretended to think, of Miss Greta's qualifications, he had set a guard of some sort at every possible avenue of escape. The woman was already as much a prisoner as any badger in the bottom of a bag. "If she's a specimen of the amateur," Napier said, "Heaven save us from the professional!"
Singleton laughed. "Heaven would need to look lively. I'd hate to be the custodian of damaging secrets with a fellow like Grindley about. You'll see." He struck his fist on the table. "A hundred pound sterling to a German pfennig, Grindley'll come back with that message from the Dutch agent neatly decoded. Oh, Grindley's immense!" Singleton rolled one long leg over the other, luxuriating in Grindley's immensity. "We aren't supposed to know each other--Grindley and I. But who wouldn't know Grindley! As a matter of fact, I introduced him to the chief, and the chief luckily isn't a stickler for the continental rules in this business. We English humanize it. What's the result? We totally mystify the rule-ridden Hun, and we've got the most efficient secret service in the world."
"Have we?" Napier started involuntarily at the sound of the motor turning off the high road and running now through the plantation with a muffled hum. "Here comes the--amateur!"
No acumen was required to read the fact that, in Napier's opinion, Singleton underestimated the noxious power of the amateur agent.
"I don't deny,"--the secret-service man stood up, but he dropped his voice to a lower register, as though the invisible comer were already at the door--"I'm not for a moment denying that this woman can do a certain amount of harm. She's got to be suppressed. But think of what she _might_ do! She's had every opportunity, and she'll always fall short."
"Oh, she can be as ruthless as you please,"--Singleton for some reason had crossed the hall. He stood leaning against the wall near the billiard-room. "She could put a bullet in you nicely, after she'd blinded you with cayenne. But,"--Singleton shook his head--"she hasn't the right standards."
"Oh, standards?" echoed Napier. It seemed a queer word.
"At heart," said Singleton, "she has longings, as I read per record--ineradicable longings--for, what do you think? Respectability!" He smiled and then shook his fine head. "To be any good as a spy you must be either aristocrat--a perfectly satisfying law unto yourself, or you must be _canaille_. This woman--she's _bourgeoise_ to the core, and a Romantic to boot. There doesn't exist a more fatal combination. I tell you,"--he stood erect--"Greta Schwarz is done for. _Kaput!_"