"It only shows how right I was to warn you of the spy danger—the double danger of being made the victim of a genuine agent and the risk of a frivolous accusation. You may be sure that now, when you go back to the hotel with money, you will be accused everywhere of being a spy. If you have any trouble telegraph to me at Bralatz. Here's my address."
"And here's Avereshti," Sylvia said. "Good-by and good luck. Et vive la Roumanie!"
She waved her hand to him and walked quickly from the station to the hotel. It was good to see the waiter on the threshold and to be conscious of being able to rule him with the prospect of a tip. How second-rate the hotel looked, with money in one's pocket! How obsequiously it seemed to beg one's patronage! There was not a single window that did not have the air of cringing to the new arrival.
"Lunch for two at once," Sylvia cried, flinging him a twenty-franc note.
"For two?" the waiter repeated.
"For myself and Mademoiselle Walters—my friend up-stairs," she added, when the waiter stared first at her and then at the money. "What's the matter? Is she ill? Crétin, if she's ill you and your master shall pay."
"The lady who was staying here with madame left this morning with a gentleman."
"Crapule, tu mens!"
"Madame may look for herself. The room is empty."
Sylvia caught the waiter by the throat and shook him.