Sonia read the letter under the vigilant scrutiny of the Chief of Police. The stilted phrasing was as unfamiliar as the name, but the neat, precise writing, small and regular as a monkish manuscript, was the writing of O'Rane.
"You are acquainted with this Mr. Morris?" asked the Chief of Police.
"I—I've met him once," stammered Sonia, "some years ago.
"He knows you? Well enough to identify you? I have asked him to attend here this afternoon. Be good enough to be seated."
Sonia walked uncertainly to a chair and sat with thumping heart while the Chief of Police went on with his writing. Five, ten and fifteen minutes passed: there was no sign of O'Rane, and she felt herself growing desperate under the suspense. Then the door opened, and he was ushered in.
"Guess you're the Chief of Police," he hazarded, stretching out his hand and not noticing the corner in which Sonia was sitting. "Pleased to meet you, sir. I got your note. What's your trouble anyway?"
The Chief of Police presented him with his own letter and put a question in German.
"Say, I don't use German," O'Rane answered. "French is the best I can manage. Why, that's uncommon like my fist! What way d'you come to have it?"
It was explained that Miss Dainton was under police supervision and that any letters were liable to be opened and read.
"Gee! What's she been doing?" asked O'Rane. "Oh, I forgot! This blamed war. Yes. I reckon she's a prisoner. And I wanted her to dine with me."