Camilla Maurice stood up.
“Might we wash, Mr. Becher?” she asked.
The ultimate predicament was all at once staring the little man in the face.
“To be sure.... I might have known.... You will a room––desire.” ... He ran his fingers through his hair, and inspiration came. “Mr. Maurice,” he motioned, “might I a moment with you––speak?”
“Certainly, Mr. Becher.”
The German saw light, and fairly beamed as he sought the safe seclusion of the doorway.
“She is your sister or cousin––nein?” he asked. 129
There was the faintest suggestion of a smile in the corners of Ichabod’s mouth.
“No, she is neither my sister nor my cousin, Mr. Becher.”
Hans heaved a sigh of relief: it had been a close corner.