"Righto, we'll call you that," Joey said. "I thought you couldn't be a Hunnish kind of German when you were so decent to me that Sunday, you know. We'll introduce ourselves, and then it will all be as right as rain. This is Gabrielle Arden, and here's Noreen O'Hara, and I'm Joey Graham."
Two drowned rats bowed politely in acknowledgment of Joey's introduction; but the jumpy young man was not looking at them. He was staring at Joey.
"Graham—Graham—" he muttered; then suddenly: "I was with the gardeners that night you act in the big hall, and you have the look of him then, Mademoiselle. Was your father a major of the name of Graham?"
"Yes, he was; but the Huns killed him with their beastliness to him when he was wounded and a prisoner," Joey said.
"You saved my life; I will tell you all I know," the young man said. "When the Professor sent for me to come here, two months ago, Major Graham was not dead, but alive and working in the salt mines at Kochnecht."
"What?" Joey gasped. "He was reported killed."
"Many are reported so, but not all are dead. Some day perhaps a search will find Englishmen left behind in Germany. Your Major Graham is one—I gave him water when he was wounded, and no woman would have pity, and he thanked me and said I was 'a good chap,' and smiled as you smile, Mademoiselle, so I remember him. But the Count that used to shoot at Calgarloch Castle had a spite against your father, and returned him 'killed.'"
The tower room swam with Joey for a moment; she felt sick and queer.
"I say, you're not going to faint or anything rotten like that, are you?" cried Noreen; "because it's a beastly damp place to do it in."