“Well, what do you think?” I asked feebly.
“Of what?”
“Of the arrest?”
“What should I think? Apparently he is a German spy; so the gardener had told John.”
Her face and voice were absolutely cold and expressionless. Did she care, or did she not?
She moved away a step or two, and fingered one of the flower vases.
“These are quite dead. I must do them again. Would you mind moving—thank you, Mr. Hastings.” And she walked quietly past me out of the window, with a cool little nod of dismissal.
“Yes, sir. It was to Mr. Inglethorp.”
Every eye turned simultaneously to where Alfred Inglethorp was sitting, impassive and wooden. He started slightly, as the damning words fell from the young man’s lips. I half thought he was going to rise from his chair, but he remained seated, although a remarkably