“Come in!” cried Fallowby, but Trent sprang up, and opening the door, looked out. Then with a hasty excuse to the rest, he stepped into the hallway and closed the door.
When he returned he was grumbling.
“What is it, Jack?” cried West.
“What is it?” repeated Trent savagely; “I’ll tell you what it is. I have received a dispatch from the American Minister to go at 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.