"Henry is a spy—a traitor—it did not suit my plans to have him know my whereabouts."
"But Julie…."
"Mademoiselle, have patience—bear with me but a little longer—" The excited Frenchwoman rose and going to both doors locked them. She returned and switched on the reading lamp. "Quelle horreur! Mademoiselle, what have these beasts done to you?" she exclaimed, aghast, inspecting Kathleen in consternation. "They shall pay for every sign of suffering in your face."
"Do not let us discuss me," Kathleen sighed wearily. "Will you tell the police of your suspicions concerning Henry?"
"No, mademoiselle." Julie's expression changed. "I like not the police just now. I have a plan of my own." She checked herself abruptly. "Have you seen the Star?"
"No, Julie."
"See, it says here"—pointing to a paragraph in a folded sheet torn from a newspaper which she drew from under her apron—"'Fire at Roebling's Plant of Incendiary Origin.' Tell me, mademoiselle, what is Roebling's?"
"A factory near Trenton, New Jersey, which I believe"—Kathleen spoke somewhat uncertainly—"manufactures insulated as well as barbed wire."
"Ah, that is used in trench fighting!" The Frenchwoman took from the bodice of her black gown a crumpled telegram singed at the edges. "Henry received this but an hour ago. I watched, oh, so carefully. I saw him turn pale, and such was his haste to leave the house that he did not wait to see that the paper burned when he threw it in the grate. Can you translate it for me, mademoiselle?"
Smoothing out the telegram, Kathleen, with the maid intently peering over her shoulder, read the words it contained besides the address, in puzzled silence: