ARMS AND THE WOMAN.
I was working in the garden, tidying up after the weekly visit of the jobbing gardener, when Bolsover put his head over the hedge. "Heard about the Pottingers' governess?" he asked excitedly.
"The Pottingers' governess?" I repeated. "No; what about her? Has she given them notice?"
"Well, she's not exactly the Pottingers' governess," he replied, "but governess to some intimate friends of theirs named Ings living at Ponders End. Anyhow, I can absolutely vouch for the truth of the story."
"Get on," I said. "Don't keep me on tenterhooks. What's she done?"
"Why, the police have discovered that she's a German spy," said Bolsover mysteriously.
"'Angels and ministers of grace de—— '"
"Yes," he went on, "she had been with them three years, teaching the children 'Ich bin geworden sein,' and 'Hast du die Tochter des Löwen gesehen,' and all that. It appears that the police called at the house one night recently and insisted on searching her room and her trunks. Mr. Ings protested; said they'd made a mistake, pledged his word on her honour and integrity, but all with no avail. They searched and found—what do you think?"
"I'll buy it," I said; "Uncle Jasper's coming to lunch with me. What did they find?"