"I remember the play," said Verba. "Somebody dramatised it--Lord knows who--and Scudder put it on here as a curtain raiser. I saw it myself, Offutt--think of that! Sitting up yonder in the old peanut roost--a kid no bigger than that kid down there--I saw it. And now I'm seeing it again; seeing Burt Bateman play the part of the old paralytic--you know, the old French officer who was fooled by his doctor and his granddaughter into believing the French had licked the Germans, when all the time 'twas the other way and----" "Sh-h!" counselled Offutt. After another little wait Bateman was going on with his scene: "'Listen! Listen!'" he cried, cupping a tremulous palm behind his ear. "'Do you not hear them far away?--the trumpets--the trumpets of victorious France! Our forces have entered Berlin! Thank God! Thank God! All Paris will celebrate. I must greet them from the balcony.'" With a mighty effort he reared himself to his feet, straightening his slanted shoulders, erecting his lolled head. His fingers fumbled at button and buttonhole, fastening his coat at the throat. He swung one arm imperiously, warding off imaginary hands. "'The trumpets! The trumpets! Hark! They come nearer and nearer! They sound for the victory of France--for a heroic army. I will go! Doctor or no doctor, I pay my homage this day to our glorious army. Stand back, _ma chérie_!'" Offutt, fifty feet away, caught himself straining his ears to hear those trumpets too. A rat ran across his foot and Offutt never knew it. "'They come! They come!'" chuckled Bateman. He dragged himself up stage, mounted the two stairs to the balcony, and stood in the window, at attention, to salute the tri-coloured flag. Nor did he forget to keep his face half turned to the body of the house. He smiled; and the two unseen spies, staring at that profiled head, saw the joy that was in the smile. Then, in the same moment, the expression changed. Dumb astonishment came first--an unbelieving astonishment; then blank stupefaction; then the shock of horrified understanding; then unutterable rage. Offutt recalled the tale from which the playlet had been evolved, and Verba, for his part, recalled the playlet; but, had neither known what they knew, the both of them, guided and informed only by the quality of Bateman's acting, still could have anticipated the climax now impending; and, lacking all prior acquaintance with the plot of it, yet would have read that the cripple, expecting to cheer his beloved French, saw advancing beneath the Arc de Triomphe the heads of the conquering Germans, and heard, above the calling bugles, not the Marseillaise, but the strains of a Teuton marching song. His back literally bristled with his hate. He spun about full face, a mortally stricken man. His clenched fists rose above his head in a command. "'To arms! To arms!'" he screamed impotently, with the rattle already in his throat. "'The Prussians! The Prus----'"