which to
make up my mind"--she laughed curiously as she repeated the phrase--"in
which to make up my mind." Briefly she recounted what about: "I want to
give him positive information of a weak point that can be taken easily."

"But, Marta--Marta--have you considered what a terrible risk--what--" he
protested, the chief of intelligence now submerged in the man.

"No more than for Feller. I sent Feller away and I am taking his place.
How is he? Did he get his guns?"

"Yes, not a battery, but a battalion--a major's command--and the iron
cross, too!"

"Splendid! Oh, I'd like to see him in uniform directing their fire! How
happy he must be! But, are you going to do your part? Are you going to
give me the information?"

"I shall have to ask Partow. It's a pretty big thing."

"Yes--only that is not all my plan, my little plan. After they have
taken the first line of defence--and they will get it, won't they?"

"Yes, we shall yield in the end, yield rather than suffer too great
losses there that will weaken the defence on the main line."

"Then I want to know where it is that you want Westerling to attack on
the main line, so that we can get him to attack there. That--that will
help, won't it?"

"Yes."

"Of course, all the while I shall be getting news from him--when I have
proven my loyalty and have his complete confidence--and I'll telephone
it to you. I am sure I can get something worth while with you to direct
me; don't you think so, Lanny?"

She put the question as simply as if she were asking if she might sew on
a button for him. It had the charm of an intimate fellowship of purpose.
It appeared free of the least realization of the magnitude of her
undertaking. Didn't Mrs. Galland believe that blood would tell? And
hadn't the old premier, her grandfather, said: "You can afford to be
fussed about little things but never about big things"?

"I'll hold the wire, Lanny. Ask Partow!" she concluded. Of the two she
was the steadier.

"Well?" said Partow, looking up at the sound of Lanstron's step. Then he
half raised himself from his chair at sight of a Lanstron with eyes in a
daze of brilliancy; a Lanstron with his maimed hand twitching in an
outstretched gesture; a Lanstron in the dilemma of being at the same
time lover and chief of intelligence. Should he let her make the
sacrifice of everything that he held to be sacred to a woman's delicacy?
Should he not return to the telephone and tell her that he would n