once and identify and claim, as a fellow-countryman and a brother artist, a rascally thief and a German spy!”
“Don’t go,” suggested Fallowby.
“If I don’t they'll shoot him at once.”
“Let them,” growled Thorne.
“Do you fellows know who it is?”
“Hartman!” shouted West, inspired.
Sylvia sprang up deathly white, but Odile slipped her arm around her and supported her to a chair, saying calmly, “Sylvia has fainted,—it’s the hot room,— bring some water.”
Trent brought it at once.
Sylvia opened her eyes, and after a moment rose, and supported by Marie Guernalec and Trent, passed into the bedroom.
It was the signal for breaking up, and everybody came and shook hands with Trent, saying they hoped Sylvia would sleep it off and that it would be nothing.
When Marie Guernalec took leave of him, she avoided his eyes, but he spoke to her cordially and thanked her for her aid.
“Anything I can do, Jack?” inquired West, lingering, and then hurried downstairs to catch up with the rest.
Trent leaned over the banisters, listening to their footsteps and chatter, and then the lower door banged and the house was silent. He lingered, staring down into the blackness, biting his lips; then with an impatient movement, “I am crazy!” he muttered, and lighting a candle, went into the bedroom. Sylvia was lying on the bed. He bent over her, smoothing the curly hair on her forehead.
“Are you better, dear Sylvia?”
