“Oh, Derrol!” she whispered, aghast. “You don't know what you are saying.”
“It's the way I feel, just the same,” said he stubbornly.
“Then you do think the warning came from this house?” She attempted to withdraw herself from his arms.
“God bless you, darling,—I don't think it came from you, or in any way through you,” he cried miserably.
“Then, whom do you suspect?” she demanded.
“It might have been Hodges,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he looked away from her.
“But Hodges was an Englishman, and violently anti-German. It couldn't have been Hodges.”
“In any event, he's dead and can't defend himself,” said he. “I trust you, dearest, not to repeat a word of what I've just been saying,—not a word to any one.”
“You are very foolish, Derrol,—but I promise. Not even to Uncle Davenport or Aunt Frieda. They would be shocked beyond words if they knew you—”
“That's right, dear,—not even to Mr. or Mrs. Carstairs,—or that bustling young son of theirs.”