“Worse—we know at the Legation—I can’t speak of it. But that’s not what I have to say. Something happened this afternoon. The Alsatian Brasserie was visited and an American named Hartman has been arrested. Do you know him?”
“I know a German who calls himself an American;—his name is Hartman.”
“Well, he was arrested about two hours ago. They mean to shoot him.”
“What!”
“Of course we at the Legation can’t allow them to shoot him offhand, but the evidence seems conclusive.”
“Is he a spy?”
“Well, the papers seized in his rooms are pretty damning proofs, and besides he was caught, they say, swindling the Public Food Committee. He drew rations for fifty, how, I don’t know. He claims to be an American artist here, and we have been obliged to take notice of it at the Legation. It’s a nasty affair.”
“To cheat the people at such a time is worse than robbing the poor-box,” cried Trent angrily. “Let them shoot him!”
“He’s an American citizen.”
“Yes, oh yes,” said the other with bitterness. “American citizenship is a precious privilege when every goggle-eyed German—” His anger choked him.
Southwark shook hands with him warmly. “It can’t be helped, we must own the carrion. I am afraid you may be called upon to identify him as an American artist,” he said with a ghost of a smile on his deep-lined face; and walked away through the Cours la Reine.