The photographer was not at his studio but the girl who kept the shop in his absence offered to call him at the big house.
“Tell him that Norma Kent and Lieutenant Warren would like to see his masterpiece,” said Norma.
Word came over the wire at once that the great, little man would be delighted to see them.
“Now,” said Norma, as they drove through the gate, “if his three huge dogs don’t eat us up, peep and all, we’ll get on fine.”
Black pigeons, looking like dwarfed nuns, sat in rows on the barn roof, but no dogs appeared to announce their coming.
For all the world as if he had been watching at the keyhole, the photographer, whose hair seemed whiter and more bristling than ever, threw open the door the instant they rang the bell.
“Come in! Come in!” he welcomed.
“Mr. Langer, this is Lieutenant Warren,” said Norma.
For a brief space of time he studied the newcomer’s face intently. But Rita Warren was older than when she was in India. Then, too, she had made her face up rather well for the occasion and was wearing tinted glasses. Add to this fact that a woman’s olive-drab uniform is in itself something of a disguise, and it may not seem strange that at first, at least, he did not recognize her.
“But then,” Norma chided herself, “more than likely he is not the man at all. Spies who are shot seldom show up somewhere else!”