the Italian's shoes and fell to lacing them up. The feverish haste of his movements seemed to puzzle her.
"What are you going to do?" she finally asked.
"I'm going to get ready for Lambert," was his answer.
"But he'll never come back."
"Then I'll go for him." Kestner was on his feet by this time, dodging across the room. He found relief in quick movement, for he was not so calm as he pretended to be.
"But where can you go?"
"It won't be far," said Kestner as he dodged out to the telephone and caught up the receiver. Carlesi, he saw, had moved one hairy arm a little. There was no time to be lost.
He dodged back to the printing-room door and stood there with his hand on the knob. The girl saw that he was waiting for her to step to the outer room.
It was not until he had closed and locked the printing-room door that she turned slowly about and faced him. He could see that she was steeling herself to a final composure which was not easy to achieve.
"What must I do?" she asked him.
Kestner, who had been disconsolately studying his ill-fitting shoes, looked even more disconsolately up into her face. He stared at the shadowy violet-blue eyes, at the misty rose of the unhappy mouth that seemed made for happiness, and his own misery increased. Then he took a deep breath.
"I am a federal officer," he began, wondering why it was so hard for him to say what was necessary to say.
