“Yes.”
“And the little Soane girl? Are her sympathies with Germany?”
“Why, certainly not! What gave you that idea, Thessa?”
The music ran down; Westmore, the indefatigable, still keeping possession of Dulcie, went over to wind up the gramophone.
“Isn’t there some place where I could be alone with you for a few minutes?” whispered Thessalie.
“There’s a balcony under the middle window. It overlooks the court.”
She nodded and laid her hand on his arm, and they walked to the long window, opened it, and stepped out.
Moonlight fell into the courtyard, silvering everything. Down there on the grass the Prophet sat, motionless as a black sphynx in the lustre of the moon.
Thessalie looked down into the shadowy court, then turned and glanced up at the tiled roof just above them, where a chimney rose in silhouette against the pale radiance of the sky.
Behind the chimney, flat on their stomachs, lay two men who had been watching, through an upper ventilating 146 pane of glass, the scene in the brilliantly lighted studio below them.