IN THE TRAP
AS Stewart set down his bags, still swearing softly to himself, he
heard behind him the sound of a stifled sob.
“There! there!” he said. “We’ll soon be all right!” and as he turned
swiftly and reached out his arms to grope for her, it seemed to him
that she walked right into them.
“Oh, oh!” she moaned, and pressed close against him. “What will they do
to us? Why have they placed us here?” And then he felt her lips against
his ear. “Be careful!” she whispered in the merest breath. “There is an
open window!”
Stewart’s heart was thrilling. What a woman! What an actress! Well, he
would prove that he, too, could play a part.
“They will do nothing to us, dear,” he answered, patting her shoulder.
“They will not dare to harm us! Remember, we are Americans!”
“But--but why should they place us here?”
“I don’t know--I suppose they have to be careful. I’ll appeal to our
ambassador in the morning. He’ll soon bring them to their senses. So
don’t worry!”
“But it is so dark!” she complained. “And I am so tired. Can we not
seat ourselves somewhere?”
“We can sit on our bags,” said Stewart. “Wait!” In a moment he had
found them and placed them one upon the other. “There you are. Now let
us see what sort of a place we’ve come to.”
He got out his match-box and struck a light. The first flare almost
blinded him; then, holding the match above his head, he saw they were
in a brick cubicle, about twenty feet square. There was a single small
window, without glass but heavily barred. The place was empty, save for
a pile of barrels against one end.
“It’s a store-house of some kind,” he said, and then he sniffed
sharply. “Gasoline! I’d better not strike any more matches.”
He sat down beside her and for some moments they were silent. Almost
unconsciously, his arm found its way about her waist. She did not draw
away.
“Do you suppose they will keep us here all night?” she asked, at last.
“Heaven knows! They seem capable of any folly!”
And then again he felt her lips against his ear.
“We must destroy your ticket,” she breathed. “Can you find it in the
dark?”
“I think so.” He fumbled in an inside pocket and drew it out. “Here it
is.”
Her groping hand found his and took the ticket.
“Now talk to me,” she said.
Stewart talked at random, wondering how she intended to destroy the
ticket. Once he fancied he heard the sound of soft tearing; and once,
when she spoke in answer to a question, her voice seemed strange and
muffled.
“It is done,” she whispered at last. “Place these in your pocket and
continue talking.”
Her groping hand touched his and he found himself grasping two minute
objects whose nature he could not guess, until, feeling them carefully,
he found them to be the small wire staples which had held the coupons
of the ticket together. He slipped them into his waistcoat pocket; and
then, as he began to tell her about the women from Philadelphia and the
journey from Cologne, he was conscious that she was no longer beside
him. But at the end of a moment she was back again.
“That girl was perfectly right,” she said. “Women are very silly to try
to travel about Europe without a man as escort. Consider how I should
feel at this moment if I did not have you!”
But in spite of themselves, the conversation lagged; and they finally
sat silent.
How strange a thing was chance, Stewart pondered. Here was he who,
until to-day, had seen his life stretching before him ordered and
prosaic, cast suddenly into the midst of strange adventure. Here was
this girl, whom he had known for only a few hours and yet seemed to
have known for years--whom he certainly knew better than he had ever
known any other woman There was Bloem--he had been cast into adventure,
too. Was he outside somewhere, among all those thousands, gazing up
at the stars and wondering at Fate? And the thousands themselves--the
millions mustering at this moment into the armies of Europe--to what
tragic adventure were they being hurried!
A quick step came along the platform and stopped at the door; there was
the snap of a lock, and the door swung open.
“You will come out,” said a voice in English.
Against the lights of the station, Stewart saw outlined the figure of
a man in uniform. He rose wearily.
“Come, dear,” he said, and helped her to her feet; “it seems we are to
go somewhere else.” Then he looked down at the heavy bags. “I can’t
carry those things all over creation,” he said; “what’s more, I won’t.”
“I will attend to that,” said the stranger, and put a whistle to his
lips and blew a shrill blast. Two men came running up. “You will take
those bags,” he ordered. “Follow me,” he added to Stewart.
They followed him along the platform, crossed the track to another, and
came at last to a great empty shed with a low table running along one
side. The men placed the bags upon this table and withdrew.
“I shall have to search them,” said the officer. “Are they locked?”
He stood in the glare of a lamp hanging from the rafters, and for
the first time, Stewart saw his face. The man smiled at his start of
surprise.
“I see you recognize me,” he said. “Yes--I was in your compartment
coming from Cologne. We will speak of that later. Are your bags locked?”
“No,” said Stewart.
He watched with affected listlessness as the officer undid the straps
and raised the lids. But his mind was very busy. Had he said anything
during that ride from Cologne which he would now have reason to regret?
Had he intimated that he was unmarried? He struggled to recall the
conversation, sentence by sentence, but could remember nothing that was
actually incriminating. And yet, in mentioning his intended stop at
Aix-la-Chapelle, he had not added that he was to meet his wife there,
and he had made a tentative arrangement to see Miss Field again in
Brussels. The talk, in other words, had been carried on from the angle
of a bachelor with no one to think of but himself, and not from that of
a married man with a wife to consider.
It was certainly unfortunate that the man who had happened to overhear
that conversation should be the one detailed here to examine his
luggage. How well did he know English? Was he acute enough to catch the
implications of the conversation, or would a disregard of one’s wife
seem natural to his Teutonic mind? Stewart glanced at him covertly; and
then his attention was suddenly caught and held by the extreme care
with which the man examined the contents of the bags.
He shook out each garment, put his hand in every pocket, examined the
linings with his finger-tips, ripped open one where he detected some
unusual thickness only to discover a strip of reënforcement, opened
and read carefully every letter and paper, turned the Baedeker page by
page to be sure that nothing lay between them. He paused over the satin
shoes and stockings, but put them down finally without comment. At last
the bags were empty, and, taking up his knife, he proceeded to rip
open the linen linings and look under them. Then, with equal care, he
returned each article to its place, examining it a second time with the
same intent scrutiny.
All this took time, and long before it was over, Stewart and his
companion had dropped upon a bench which ran along the wall opposite
the table. Stewart was so weary that he began to feel that nothing
mattered very much, and he could see that the girl also was deadly
tired. But at last the search was finished and the bags closed and
strapped.
“I should like to see the small bag which Madame carries on her arm,”
said the officer, and, without a word, the girl held it out to him.
He examined its contents with a minuteness almost microscopic. Nothing
was too small, too unimportant, to escape the closest attention.
Stewart, marveling at this exhibition of German thoroughness, watched
him through half-closed eyes, his heart beating a little faster. Would
he find some clew, some evidence of treachery?
There were some handkerchiefs in the bag, and some small toilet
articles; a cake of soap in a case, a box of powder, a small purse
containing some gold and silver, a postcard, two or three letters, and
some trivial odds and ends such as every woman carries about with her.
The searcher unfolded each of the handkerchiefs and held it against
the light, he cut the cake of soap into minute fragments; he emptied
the box of powder and ran an inquiring finger through its contents;
he turned out the purse and looked at every coin it contained; then
he sat down and read slowly and gravely the postcard and each of the
letters and examined their postmarks, and finally he took one of the
closely-written sheets, mounted on his chair, and held the sheet close
against the chimney of the lamp until it was smoking with the heat,
examining it with minute attention as though he rather expected to make
some interesting discovery. As a finish to his researches, he ripped
open the lining of the bag and turned it inside out.
“Where did you buy this bag, madame?” he asked.
“In Paris, a month ago.”
“These handkerchiefs are also French.”
“Certainly. French handkerchiefs are the best in the world.”
He compressed his lips and looked at her.
“And that is a French hat,” he went on.
“Good heavens!” cried the girl. “One would think I was passing the
customs at New York. Certainly it is French. So is my gown--so are my
stockings--so is my underwear. For what else does an American woman
come abroad?”
He looked at her shoes. She saw his glance and understood it.
“No; my shoes are American. The French do not know how to make shoes.”
“But the slippers are French.”
“Which slippers?”
“The ones in your husband’s bag.”
She turned laughingly to Stewart.
“Have you been carrying a pair of my slippers all around Europe,
Tommy?” she asked. “How did that happen?”
“I don’t know. I packed in rather a hurry,” answered Stewart,
sheepishly.
“Where is the remainder of your baggage, madame?” asked the officer.
“At Brussels--at least, I hope so. I sent it there direct from Spa.”
“Why did you do that?”
“In order to avoid the examination at the frontier.”
“Why did not you yourself go direct to Brussels?”
“I wished to see my husband. I had not seen him for almost a month,”
and she cast Stewart a fond smile.
“Have you been recently married?”
“We have been married four years,” the girl informed him, with dignity.
Stewart started to give some additional information about the family,
but restrained himself.
The inspector looked at them both keenly for a moment, scratching his
bearded chin reflectively. Then he took a rapid turn up and down the
shed, his brow furrowed in thought.
“I shall have to ask you both to disrobe,” he said, at last, and as
Stewart started to his feet in hot protest, he added, quickly, “I have
a woman who will disrobe Madame.”
“But this is an outrage!” protested Stewart, his face crimson. “This
lady is my wife--I won’t stand by and see her insulted. I warn you
that you are making a serious mistake.”
“She shall not be insulted. Besides, it is necessary.”
“I don’t see it.”
“That is for me to decide,” said the other bluntly, and he put his
whistle to his lips and blew two blasts.
A door at the farther end of the shed opened and a woman entered. She
was a matronly creature with a kind face, and she smiled encouragingly
at the shrinking girl.
“Frau Ritter,” said the officer in German, “you will take this lady
into the office and disrobe her. Bring her clothing to me here--all of
it.”
Again Stewart started to protest, but the officer silenced him with a
gesture.
“It is useless to attempt resistance,” he said, sharply. “I must do my
duty--by force if necessary. It will be much wiser to obey quietly.”
The girl rose to her feet, evidently reassured by the benevolent
appearance of the woman.
“Do not worry, Tommy,” she said. “It will be all right. It is of no use
to argue with these people. There is nothing to do but submit.”
“So it seems,” Stewart muttered, and watched her until she disappeared
through the door.
“Now, sir,” said the officer, sharply, “your clothes.”
Crimson with anger and humiliation, Stewart handed them over piece by
piece, saw pockets turned out, linings loosened here and there, the
heels of his shoes examined, his fountain-pen unscrewed and emptied
of its ink. At last he stood naked under the flaring light, feeling
helpless as a baby.
“Well, I hope you are satisfied,” he said, vindictively.
With a curt nod, the officer handed him back his underwear.
“I will keep these for the moment,” he said, indicating the little pile
of things taken from the pockets. “You may dress. _Your_ clothes, at
least, are American!”
As he spoke, the woman entered from the farther door, with a bundle of
clothing in her arms. Stewart turned hastily away, struggling into his
trousers as rapidly as he could, and cursing the careless immodesty
of these people. Sullenly he laced his shoes, and put on his collar,
noting wrathfully that it was soiled. He kept his back to the man at
the table--he felt that it would be indecent to watch him scrutinizing
those intimate articles of apparel.
“You have examined her hair?” he heard the man ask.
“Yes, Excellency.”
“Very well; you may take these back.”
Not until he heard the door close behind her did Stewart turn around.
The officer was lighting a cigarette. The careless unconcern of the act
added new fuel to the American’s wrath.
“Perhaps you will tell me the meaning of all this?” he demanded. “Why
should my wife and I be compelled to submit to these indignities?”
“We are looking for a spy,” replied the other imperturbably, and
addressed himself to an examination of the things he had taken from
Stewart’s pockets--his penknife, his watch, the contents of his purse,
the papers in his pocket-book. He even placed a meditative finger for
an instant on the two tiny metal clips which had come from the Cook
ticket. But to reconstruct their use was evidently too great a task
even for a German police agent, for he passed on almost at once to
something else. “Very good,” he said at last, pushed the pile toward
its owner, and opened the passport, which he had laid to one side.
“That passport will tell you that I am not a spy,” said Stewart,
putting his things angrily back into his pockets. “That, it seems to
me, should be sufficient.”
“As far as you are concerned, it is entirely sufficient,” said the
other. “One can see at a glance that you are an American. But the
appearance of Madame is distinctly French.”
“Americans are of every race,” Stewart pointed out. “I have seen many
who look far more German than you do.”
“That is true; but it so happens that the spy we are looking for is a
woman. I cannot tell you more, except that it is imperative she does
not escape.”
“And you suspect my wife?” Stewart demanded. “But that is absurd!”
He was proud of the fact that he had managed to maintain unaltered his
expression of virtuous indignation, for a sudden chill had run down his
spine at the other’s careless words. Evidently the situation was far
more dangerous than he had suspected! Then he was conscious that his
hands were trembling slightly, and thrust them quickly into his pockets.
“The fact that she joined you at Aachen seemed most suspicious,” the
inspector pointed out. “I do not remember that you mentioned her during
your conversation with the ladies in the train.”
“Certainly not. Why should I have mentioned her?”
“There was perhaps no reason for doing so,” the inspector admitted.
“Nevertheless, it seemed to us unusual that she should have come
back from Spa to Aachen to meet you, when she might, so much more
conveniently, have gone direct to Brussels and awaited you there.”
“She has explained why we made that arrangement.”
“Yes,” and through half-closed eyes he watched the smoke from his
cigarette circle upwards toward the lamp. “Conjugal affection--most
admirable, I am sure! It is unfortunate that Madame’s appearance should
answer so closely to that of the woman for whom we are searching. It
was also unfortunate that you should have met at the Kölner Hof. That
hotel has not a good reputation--it is frequented by too many French
whose business is not quite clear to us. How did it happen that you
went there?”
“Why,” retorted Stewart hotly, glad of the chance to return one of
the many blows which had been rained upon him, “one of your own men
recommended it.”
“One of my own men? I do not understand,” and the officer looked at him
curiously.
“At least one of the police. He came to me at the Hotel Continental
at Cologne to examine my passport. He asked me where I was going from
Cologne, and I told him to Aix-la-Chapelle. He asked at which hotel I
was going to stay, and I said I did not know. He said he would like to
have that information for his report, and added that the Kölner Hof was
near the station and very clean and comfortable. I certainly found it
so.”
The officer was listening with peculiar intentness.
“Why were you not at the station to meet your wife?” he asked.
“I did not know when she would arrive; I was told that the trains were
all running irregularly,” answered Stewart, prouder of his ability to
lie well and quickly than he had ever been of anything else in his life.
“But how did she know at which hotel to find you?” inquired the
officer, and negligently flipped the ash from his cigarette.
Stewart distinctly felt his heart turn over as he saw the abyss at
his feet. How would she have known? How _could_ she have known? What
would he have done if he had really had a wife waiting at Spa? These
questions flashed through his head like lightning.
“Why, I telegraphed her, of course,” he said; “and to make assurance
doubly sure, I sent her a postcard.” And then his heart fell again, for
he realized that the police had only to wire to Cologne to prove that
no such message had been filed there.
But the officer tossed away his cigarette with a little gesture of
satisfaction.
“It was well you took the latter precaution, Mr. Stewart,” he said,
and Stewart detected a subtle change in his tone--it was less cold,
more friendly. “The wires were closed last night to any but official
business, and your message could not possibly have got through. I am
surprised that it was accepted.”
“I gave it to the porter at the hotel,” Stewart explained. “Perhaps it
wasn’t accepted, and he just kept the money.”
“That may be. But your postcard got through, as you no doubt know.
It evidently caught the night mail and was delivered to Madame this
morning.”
“Really,” stammered Stewart, wondering desperately if this was another
trap, “I didn’t know--I didn’t think to ask----”
“Luckily Madame brought it with her in her hand-bag,” explained the
other. “It offers a convincing confirmation of your story--the more
convincing perhaps since you seem surprised that she preserved it. Ah,
here she is now,” and he arose as the door opened and the girl came in.
“Will you not sit down, madame?” he went on, courteously. “I pray that
both of you will accept my sincere apologies for the inconvenience I
have caused you. Believe me, it was one of war’s necessities.”
The girl glanced at the speaker curiously, his tone was so warm, so
full of friendship; then she glanced at Stewart----
And Stewart, catching that glance, was suddenly conscious that his
mouth was open and his eyes staring and his whole attitude that of
a man struck dumb by astonishment. Hastily he bent over to retie a
shoestring. But really, he told himself, he could not be blamed for
being disconcerted--anybody would be disconcerted to be told suddenly
that his most desperate lie was true! But how could it be true? How
could there be any such postcard as the German had described? Was it
just another trap?
“We understand, of course, that you were merely doing your duty,” the
girl’s voice was saying; “what seemed unfair was that we should be the
victims. Do I understand that--that you no longer suspect us?”
“Absolutely not; and I apologize for my suspicions.”
“Then we are at liberty to proceed?”
“You cannot in any event proceed to-night. I will pass you in the
morning. And I hope you will not think that any discourtesy was
intended to you as Americans. Germany is most anxious to retain the
good-will of America. It will mean much to us in this struggle.”
“Most Americans are rather sentimental over Alsace-Lorraine,” said
Stewart, who had recovered his composure, and he fished for a cigar and
offered one to the officer, who accepted it with a bow of thanks.
“That is because they do not understand,” said the other, quickly.
“Alsace and Lorraine belong of right to Germany. Of that there can be
no question.”
“But haven’t you been rather harsh with them?”
“We have not been harsh enough. Had we done our duty, we would have
stamped out without mercy the treason which is still rampant in
many parts of those provinces. Instead, we have hesitated, we have
temporized--and now, too late, we realize our mistake. The spy for whom
we are searching at this moment comes from Strassburg.”
Stewart started at the words; but the girl threw back her head and
burst into delighted laughter.
“So you took us for spies!” she cried. “What a tale to tell, Tommy,
when we get home!”
“There is but one spy, madame,” said the officer; “a woman young and
beautiful like yourself--accomplished, distinguished, a great linguist,
a fine musician, of good family, and moving in the highest society
in Alsace. She was on terms of intimacy with many of our officers;
they did not hesitate to talk freely to her. Some of them, fascinated
by her wit and beauty and wishing to prove their own importance,
told her things which they had no right to tell. More than that, at
the last moment she succeeded in getting possession for a time of
certain confidential documents. But she had gone too far--she was
suspected--she fled--and she has not yet been captured. But she cannot
escape--we cannot permit her to escape. We know that she is still
somewhere in Germany, and we have made it impossible for her to pass
the frontier. A person who knows her is to be stationed at every post,
and no woman will be permitted to pass until he has seen her. The man
to be stationed here will arrive from Strassburg in an hour. As a final
precaution, madame,” he added, smiling, “and because my orders are
most precise and stringent, I shall ask you and your husband to remain
here at Herbesthal until morning. As I have said, you could not, in any
event, go on to-night, for the frontier is closed. In the morning, I
will ask my man from Strassburg to look at you, and will then provide
you with a safe-conduct, and see that every possible facility is given
you to get safely across the frontier.”
“Thank you,” she said; “you are most kind. That is why you are keeping
all those people shut up in the station?”
“Yes, madame. They cannot pass until my man has seen them.”
“But you are not searching them?”
“No; with most of them, the detention is a mere matter of obeying
orders--one can tell their nationality at a glance. But to look at you,
madame, I should never have supposed you to be an American--I should
have supposed you to be French.”
“My grandmother was French,” explained the girl, composedly, “and I
am said to resemble her very closely. I must also warn you that my
sympathies are French.”
The officer shrugged his shoulders with a smile.
“That is a great misfortune. Perhaps when you see how our army fights,
we may claim some of your sympathy--or, at least, your admiration.”
“It will fight well, then?”
“It will fight so well--it will prove so irresistible--that our General
Staff has been able to prepare in advance the schedule for the entire
campaign. This is the first of August. On the fifth we shall capture
Lille, on the ninth we shall cross the Marne, and on the eleventh we
shall enter Paris. On the evening of the twelfth, the Emperor will dine
the General Staff at the Ritz.”
Stewart stared in astonishment, not knowing whether to laugh or to be
impressed. But there was no shadow of a smile on the bearded face of
the speaker.
“You are not in earnest!” Stewart protested.
“Thoroughly in earnest. We know where we shall be at every hour of
every day. There are at present living in France many Germans who are
reservists in our army. Not one of these has been required to return to
Germany. On the contrary, each of them has been instructed to report at
a point near his place of residence at a certain hour of a certain day,
where he will find his regiment awaiting him. For example, all German
reservists living at Lille, or in the neighborhood, will report at
noon of Wednesday next in the Place de la République in front of the
prefecture, where the German administration will have been installed
during the morning.”
Stewart opened his lips to say something, but no words came. He felt
intimidated and overborne.
But it was not at Stewart the officer was looking so triumphantly, it
was at the girl. Perhaps he also, yielding to a subtle fascination, was
telling things he had no right to tell in order to prove his importance!
The girl returned his gaze with a look of astonishment and admiration.
“How wonderful!” she breathed. “And it is really true?”
“True in every detail, madame.”
“But this Lille of which you have spoken--is it a fortress?”
“A great fortress, madame.”
“Will it not resist?”
“Not for long--perhaps not at all. If it does resist, it will fall like
a house of cards. The whole world will be astonished, madame, when it
learns the details of that action. We have a great surprise in store
for our enemies!”
Stewart, glancing at his companion, noted with alarm the flash of
excitement in her eyes. Would she push her questioning too far--would
she be indiscreet; but the next instant he was reassured.
“It is most fascinating,--this puzzle!” she laughed. “I shall watch the
papers for the fall of Lille. But I am very ignorant--I do not even
know where Lille is.”
“It is in the northwest corner of France, madame, just south of the
Belgian frontier.”
The girl looked at him perplexedly.
“But how can you reach it,” she asked, slowly, “without crossing
Belgium?”
“We cannot reach it without crossing Belgium.”
From the expression of her face, she might have been a child shyly
interrogating an indulgent senior.
“I know I am stupid,” she faltered, “but it seems to me I have read
somewhere--perhaps in Baedeker--that all the Powers had agreed that
Belgium should always be a neutral country.”
“So they did--Germany as well as the others. But such agreements are
mere scraps of paper. The first blast of war blows them away. France
has built along her eastern border a great chain of forts which are
almost impregnable. Therefore it is necessary for us to strike her from
the north through Belgium. Regretfully, but none the less firmly, we
have warned Belgium to stand aside.”
“Will she stand aside?”
The officer shrugged his shoulders.
“She must, or risk annihilation. She will not dare oppose us. If she
does, we shall crush her into the dust. She will belong to us, and we
will take her. Moreover, we shall not repeat the mistake we made in
Alsace-Lorraine. There will be no treason in Belgium!”
Stewart felt a little shiver of disgust sweep over him. So this was the
German attitude--treaties, solemn agreements, these were merely “scraps
of paper” not worth a second thought; a small nation had no rights
worth considering, since it lacked the power to defend them. Should it
try to do so, it would “risk annihilation!”
He did not feel that he could trust himself to talk any longer, and
rose suddenly to his feet.
“What are we going to do to-night?” he asked. “Not sit here in this
shed, surely!”
“Certainly not,” and the officer rose too. “I have secured a lodging
for you with the woman who searched Madame. You will find it clean and
comfortable, though by no means luxurious.”
“That is very kind of you,” said Stewart, with a memory of the rabble
he had seen crowded into the waiting-room. And then he looked at his
luggage. “I hope it isn’t far,” he added. “I’ve carried those bags
about a thousand miles to-day.”
“It is but a step--but I will have a man carry your bags. Here is your
passport, sir, and again permit me to assure you of my regret. You
also, madame!” and he bowed ceremoniously above her fingers.
Three minutes later, Stewart and his companion were walking down the
platform beside the pleasant-faced woman, who babbled away amiably
in German, while a porter followed with the bags. As they passed the
station, they could see that it was still jammed with a motley crowd,
while a guard of soldiers thrown around it prevented anyone leaving or
entering.
“How fortunate that we have escaped that!” said Stewart. “Even at the
price of being searched!”
“This way, sir,” said the woman, in German, and motioned off into the
darkness to the right.
They made their way across a net-work of tracks, which seemed to
Stewart strangely complicated and extensive for a small frontier
station, and then emerged into a narrow, crooked street, bordered by
mean little houses. In front of one of these the woman stopped and
unlocked the door with an enormous key. The porter set the bags inside,
received his tip, and withdrew, while their hostess struck a match and
lighted a candle, disclosing a narrow hall running from the front door
back through the house.
“You will sleep here, sir,” she said, and opened a door to the left.
They stepped through, in obedience to her gesture, and found themselves
in a fair-sized room, poorly furnished and a little musty from disuse,
but evidently clean. Their hostess hastened to open the window and to
light another candle. Then she brought in Stewart’s bags.
“You will find water there,” and she pointed to the pitcher on the
wash-stand. “I cannot give you hot water to-night--there is no fire.
Will these towels be sufficient? Yes? Is there anything else? No? Then
good-night, sir, and you also, my lady.”
“Good-night,” they answered; and for a moment after the door closed,
stood staring at it as though hypnotized.
Then the girl stepped to the window and pulled together the curtains of
white cotton. As she turned back into the room, Stewart saw that her
face was livid.
His eyes asked the question which he did not dare speak aloud.
She drew him back into the corner and put her lips close against his
ear.
“There is a guard outside,” she whispered. “We must be very careful. We
are prisoners still.”
As Stewart stood staring, she took off her hat and tossed it on a chair.
“How tired I am!” she said, yawning heavily, and turning back to the
window, she began to take down her hair.