“Ah, so! But, yes, there is his back!”
“Poor one, it is the Fraulein Engel he waits to see, perhaps.”
“More likely Le Grande, the American. He is American.”
“He is Russian. Look at his size.”
“But his shoes!” triumphantly. “They are American, little one.”
The third girl had not spoken; she was wrapping in tissue a great golden rose made for the hair. She placed it in a box carefully.
“I think he is of the police,” she said, “or a spy. There is much talk of war.”
“Foolishness! Does a police officer sigh always? Or a spy have such sadness in his face? And he grows thin and white.”
“The rose, Fraulein.”
The clerk who had wrapped up the flower held it out to the customer. The customer, however, was not looking. She was gazing with strange intentness at the back of a worn gray overcoat. Then with a curious clutch at her heart she went white. Harmony, of course, Harmony come to fetch the golden rose that was to complete Le Grande's costume.