Louise was obviously disturbed. She refused a course a little impatiently, and turned towards Wrayson anxiously.
"But the landlord," she said in a low tone, "has orders to receive no more guests."
"This man arrived to luncheon to-day," Wrayson answered. "The landlord could not refuse him that. He wished for a room and was told that he could not be taken in."
"Well, who is he, what is he like?" she demanded.
"He is a miserable sort of bounder—an imitation cockney tourist, with ready-made English clothes, a knapsack, and a camera. I should have felt suspicious about him myself, but the other fellow whom I told you about, who is staying at the inn, recognized him. He had seen him abroad, and what he told me seems decisive. I am afraid that he is a spy."
Wrayson cursed himself for a moment that he had been so outspoken, for the girl by his side seemed almost on the point of collapse. Her eyes were full of fear, and she clutched at the tablecloth as though overcome with a spasm of terror.
"Don't be alarmed," Wrayson whispered in her ear. "I am sure, I am quite sure that he is not here for what you may fear. I don't believe he is an Englishman at all."
The girl recovered herself amazingly.
"I was not thinking of myself," she said quietly; and Wrayson noticed that her eyes were fixed upon the pale, distinguished face of the woman who sat with a certain air of isolation at the head of the table.
