"A certain Krebs known professionally as Zozo, acrobatic juggler and conjurer, alleged Swiss nationality, tall, large face, clean shaven, very large hands, speaking English well, accompanied by Queenie Walters of German origin possibly carrying stolen passport of Maud Moffat, English variety artiste. Description, slim, very fair, blue eyes, pale, delicate, speaks German, Italian, French, and English, left Bucharest at end of September. Probably traveled via Dedeagatch and Salonika. Nothing definite known against them, but man frequented company of notorious enemy agents in Bucharest and is known to be bad character. Suggest he is likely to use woman to get in touch with British officers." "But what will they do to her?" Sylvia asked, dismayed by this metamorphosis of Queenie into a police-court case. "Oh, they won't do anything," Hazlewood replied, irritably. "She'll be added to the great army of suspects whose histories in all their discrepancies are building up the Golden Legend of this war. She'll exist in card indexes for the rest of her life; and her reputation will circulate only a little more freely than herself. In fact, really I'm doing her a favor by putting her down for the observation of our military psychologists and criminologists; her life will become much easier henceforth. The war has not cured human nature of a passion for bric-à-brac, and as a catalogued article _de virtu_--or should I say _de vice_?--she will be well looked after." "Then, if that's all, why do you send the telegram?" Sylvia asked. "I really don't know--probably because I've joined in the May-pole dance for ribbons with the rest of the departmental warriors. Card indexes are the casualty lists of officers commanding _embusqués_; the longer the list of names the longer the row of ribbons." "You've become very bitter," Sylvia said. "It's like a sudden change of wind. I feel quite chilled." "Well, you shall warm yourself by taking down a few hundred groups. Come along." Sylvia listened for an hour to the endless groups of five figures that Hazlewood dictated to her, during which time his voice that began calmly and murmurously reached a level of rasping and lacerating boredom before he had done. "Thank Heaven that's over and we can go to bed," he said. He seemed to be anxious to be rid of her, and she went away in some disconsolation at his abrupt change of manner. Nothing that she could think of occurred to cause it, and ultimately she could only ascribe it to nerves. "And, after all, why not nerves?" she said to herself. "Who will ever again be able to blame people for having nerves?" The next morning a note came from Hazlewood apologizing for his rudeness and thanking her for her help.