“Are you expecting him?” she demanded.
“Yes,” he said dully. It was a shock not to meet him when he was nerved to the task.
She looked at him with a certain triumph in her face that was not unmixed with affection.
“He will never come here again.”
“What do you mean?” he cried.
“He’s dead.” It was curious to note the flash of her usually mild eye as she said it. For a moment he thought the old woman was demented. But her voice was firm.
“I followed him on his way here,” she went on. “I found out where he lived. As he crossed Eighth avenue at 34th street I told people he was a German spy. There were a lot of soldiers on their way to the Pennsylvania station and they started to run after him. Then a man tripped him up but he got to his feet and crossed the road in front of a motor truck.”
“You are certain he was killed?”
“I waited to make sure,” she said simply. “Nobody knew it was I who started calling him a spy.”
There was a pause of half a minute. The knowledge of his safety was almost too much for Trent after his hours of suspense.