A woman brushed past the table, and a bit of paper fluttered from her hand, falling before the boys. On the paper something was written in red. Frank caught it up and read:
“A mort, espion!” (To death, spy.)
“Who threw it?” palpitated Wynne, excitedly.
“That woman going there!” Frank quickly answered. “See, the one glancing over her shoulder. She wears a veil. No, by Jove!—it is a mask!”
“Then I’m after her,” breathed the young newspaper correspondent. “Will see you later—perhaps.”
Away he went in pursuit of the strange woman, and both were quickly swallowed up by the moving throng.
For some moments after Wynne’s departure both boys sat still, looking toward the spot where he was last seen. Ephraim was the first to speak:
“Gol dern my hide!” he muttered. “We’ve faound something interestin’ this evenin’, an’ that’s sure es apples make cider.”
“That’s what we have,” nodded Frank, with an expression of satisfaction, not unmingled with dismay. “But we did not find out where the fellow is stopping, and he did not ask us where we put up. He may not be able to find us again, if he should want to, and we may look for him in vain.”
“That’s so.”