“Every one knows the Square of San Sophia—close to the cathedral. The house is called the Retreat, and was formerly a mission house. A small red-brick building in the north-east corner.”
I took out a scrap of paper and scribbled the words “Retreat, Square of San Sophia, N.E. corner.”
“You are not writing it down. It is dangerous to write addresses, my friend,” said Helga cautiously as I put it in my pocket.
It was a very small thing, but it startled me. I seemed to feel, as it were, the first chill of the atmosphere of intrigue which the simple caution suggested.
“It is in English, and no eyes but my own will ever see it,” I said.
“Yet it is dangerous,” she repeated. “You are not in America.”
“Perhaps you are right. I’ll tear it up;” and I took out what I thought was the paper, tore it up, and was flinging the pieces out of the carriage when Helga again stopped me, and smiled.
“Not all in one place. You have not been reared in this school, my friend. It is safer to burn papers which tell tales.”
“The pieces with the writing on are gone already,” I said, glancing at those still in my fingers. “See, these are blanks.”
“It may not matter, but caution can never be exaggerated.”