“One of the spies, named Easling or Oesten, was her lover. He was caught and met his deserts before a firing-squad in the Tower. His confession implicated Sir Joseph. The police raided his place. A terrific fight ensued. He resisted arrest. He tried to shoot one of our police. The bullet went wild and killed his wife. Before he could fire again he was shot down by one of our men.”
The astonishing transformations the story had undergone in its transit from gossip to gossip stunned Marie Louise. The memory of the reality saddened her beyond laughter. Her distress was real, but she had self-control enough to focus it on Lady Clifton-Wyatt and murmur:
“Poor thing, she is quite mad!”
There is nothing that so nearly drives one insane as to be accused of insanity.
The prosecutrix almost strangled on her indignation at Marie Louise’s calm.
“The effrontery of this woman is unendurable, Mrs. 132 Prothero. If you believe her, you must permit me to leave. I know what I am saying. I have had what I tell you from the best authority. Of course, it may sound insane, but wait until you learn what the German secret agents have been doing in America for years and what they are doing now.”
There had been publication enough of the sickening duplicity of ambassadors and attachés to lead the Americans to believe that Teutonism meant anything revolting. Mrs. Prothero was befuddled at this explosion in her quiet home. She asked:
“But surely all this has never been published, has it? I think we should have heard of it here.”
“Of course not,” said Lady Clifton-Wyatt. “We don’t publish the accounts of the submarines we sink, do we? No more do we tell the Germans what spies of theirs we have captured. And, since Sir Joseph and his wife were dead, there would have been no profit in publishing broadcast the story of the battle. So they agreed to let it be known that they died peacefully or rather painfully in their beds, of ptomaine poisoning.”
“That’s true,” said Mrs. Prothero. “That’s what I read. That’s what I’ve always understood.”