“Calm yourself, Louise,” he urged, pressing her hands. “The chances are that he found out he was suspected before he left camp, and even as I was telling you he may have been on his way to safety. I have not told any one that I spoke of the matter here,--you may be quite sure of that. That would bring trouble and annoyance to you and--well, I couldn't allow that, you know. Just the same, he has disappeared, completely, utterly. He got the scent somehow, and didn't lose a minute. Saved himself from facing a firing squad, you may be sure. So far as we have been able to discover, I am the only man who knew that he was up to something wrong. That's the maddening part of it. I--you see, I actually had the goods on him.” “You looked over your shoulder just now, Derrol,” she said, the colour ebbing from her cheek. “Do you--do you suspect any one here? Any one of the servants? They have all been with us for years,--except poor Hodges, and he is dead,--and I know that Uncle Davenport trusts them implicitly.” He held her a little closer. His lips were close to her ear, and the half-whispered words were fraught with the deepest meaning. “See here, Louise, it's a desperately serious thing to say,--and I know I'm a fresh, half-baked upstart, and all that sort of thing,--but I just can't help feeling that if I hadn't spoken of that matter here last week, we would have nabbed Mr. Spy practically red-handed.” “Oh, Derrol!” she whispered, aghast. “You don't know what you are saying.” “It's the way I feel, just the same,” said he stubbornly. “Then you _do_ think the warning came from this house?” She attempted to withdraw herself from his arms. “God bless you, darling,--I don't think it came from you, or in any way through you,” he cried miserably. “Then, whom do you suspect?” she demanded. “It might have been Hodges,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he looked away from her. “But Hodges was an Englishman, and violently anti-German. It couldn't have been Hodges.” “In any event, he's dead and can't defend himself,” said he. “I trust you, dearest, not to repeat a word of what I've just been saying,--_not a word to any one._” “You are very foolish, Derrol,--but I promise. Not even to Uncle Davenport or Aunt Frieda. They would be shocked beyond words if they knew you--” “That's right, dear,--not even to Mr. or Mrs. Carstairs,--or that bustling young son of theirs.” “It would be far more sensible to suspect me than either of them,” she said. A latch-key turned in the front door, and a moment later young Alfred Carstairs came whistling into the hall. “Hullo!” he called out, peering in upon them from the dimly lighted hallway. He was shedding his overcoat. “How's the camp, Derrol? Getting into shape?” “Getting shapelier every minute,” said Derrol Steele, crossing over to shake hands with the youth. “Where's mother?” inquired Alfred, looking over the officer's shoulder at his cousin, who had not risen.