a frantic impatience.
Polly was heliographing ironic messages with her eyes. Polly was
hemmed in by the wife of a railroad juggler, who was furious at the
Administration because it did not put all its transportation problems
in her husband's hands. She would not have intrusted him with the
buying of a spool of thread; but that was different.

Mrs. Prothero was monopolized by Lady Clifton-Wyatt. Marie Louise
could see that she herself was the theme of the talk, for Mrs.
Prothero kept casting startled glances Marie-Louise-ward, and Lady
Clifton-Wyatt glances of baleful stealth.

Marie Louise had proved often enough that she was no coward, but
even the brave turn poltroon when they fight without a sense of
justification. Her pride told her that she ought to cross over to Lady
Clifton-Wyatt and demand that she speak up. But her sense of guilt
robbed her of her courage. And that oath she had given to Mr.
Verrinder without the least reluctance now loomed before her as the
greatest mistake of her life. Her sword and shield were both in pawn.

She gave herself up for lost and had only one hope, that the men would
not come in--especially that Ross Davidge would not come in in time to
learn what Lady Clifton-Wyatt was so eager to publish. She gave Mrs.
Prothero up for lost, too, and Polly. But she wanted to keep Ross
Davidge fond of her.

Then in a lull Mrs. Prothero spoke up sharply:

"I simply can't believe it, my dear. I don't know that I ever saw a
German spy, but that child is not one. I'd stake my life on it."

"And now the avalanche!" thought Marie Louise.

The word "spy" was beginning to have more than an academic or
fictional interest to Americans, and it caught the ear of every person
present.

Mrs. Dyckman and Mme. Fargeton sat up as straight as their curves
permitted and gasped:

"A German spy! Who? Where?"

Polly Widdicombe sprang to her feet and darted to Mrs. Prothero's
side.

"Oh, how lovely! Tell me who she is! I'm dying to shoot a spy."

Marie Louise sickened at the bloodthirstiness of Polly the insouciante.

Mrs. Prothero tried to put down the riot of interest by saying:

"Oh, it's nothing. Lady Clifton-Wyatt is just joking."

Lady Clifton-Wyatt was at bay. She shot a glance at Marie Louise and
insisted:

"Indeed I'm not! I tell you she is a spy."

"Who's a spy?" Polly demanded.

"Miss Webling," said Lady Clifton-Wyatt.

Polly began to giggle; then she frowned with disappointment.

"O