“Good God!” Northrup spoke aloud; “could it be possible?” All along he had been able to ignore the suggestions of disloyalty and treachery that many of his friends held, but a glaring possibility of Maclin playing a hideous rôle alarmed him; made every fibre of his being stiffen. The man was undoubtedly German, though his name was not. What was he up to?
There are moments in life when human beings are aware of being but puppets in a big game; they may tug at the strings that control them; may perform within certain limits, but must resign themselves to the fact that the strings are unbreakable. Such a feeling possessed Northrup now. He laughed. He was not inclined to struggle––he bowed to the inevitable with a keen desire for coöperation.
At this point something caused Northrup to look around.
Upon a bench near by, hunched like a gargoyle, with her vague face nested in the palms of her thin hands, sat the girl he had noted in the yellow house the day of his arrival. One glance at her and she seemed to bring the scene back. 67 The sunny room, the children, the dogs, and the girl on the table, who had soon become so familiar to him.
“Good Lord!” he ejaculated. “And who are you?”
“Jan-an.”
Another name become a person! Northrup smiled. They were all materializing; the names, the stories.
“I see. Well?”
There was a pause. The girl was studying him slowly, almost painfully, but she did not speak.
“Where do you live, Jan-an?”