“You lie, you hound!” screamed Hartman, and flung the bottle in his hand straight at West’s face. West had him by the throat in a second, and, forcing him against the dead wall, shook him wickedly.

“Now you listen to me,” he muttered, through his clenched teeth. “You are already a suspect and⁠—I swear⁠—I believe you are a paid spy! It isn’t my business to detect such vermin, and I don’t intend to denounce you, but understand this! Colette don’t like you and I can’t stand you, and if I catch you in this street again I’ll make it somewhat unpleasant. Get out, you sleek Prussian!”

Hartman had managed to drag a knife from his pocket, but West tore it from him and hurled him into the gutter. A gamin who had seen this burst into a peal of laughter, which rattled harshly in the silent street. Then everywhere windows were raised and rows of haggard faces appeared demanding to know why people should laugh in the starving city.

“Is it a victory?” murmured one.