The Princess shrugged her fat shoulders.
"He's a Red, too. Bolsheviks is Bolsheviks. You don't know 'em. You don't know what they done in Rooshia. No boche is bloodier. Call 'em what you like—call 'em all sons of boches—and you won't be wrong."
Her flabby features had grown somber; suddenly a shudder possessed her, and she opened her mouth to scream; but Smith instantly filled the gaping orifice with medicine, and only a coughing fit followed.
To me he said: "Please leave me alone with her now. It will be all right, Michael."
And he turned tenderly to the convulsed Princess and patted her vast back.
XIX
CONFIDENCES
As I walked through the corridor considerably concerned over the statements made to us by this east-side Princess and seriously disturbed by finding myself in the very vortex of this whirlpool of intrigue which every moment seemed to spew up from its dizzying depths new plots and counter-plots, I almost ran into the ex-Queen of Greece.
She was in curl-papers and negligee, standing just outside her door, an electric torch in one hand, a pistol in the other.
"Madame!" I exclaimed, "what in the world is the matter?"