and her quietness seemed more disturbing than any outburst could be.
Kestner, as he tried to picture them aligned there, combative face to face, felt that Lambert was not his old self, that his contention as to Carlesi was foolish, that some newborn timorousness of soul had robbed him of his old astuteness just as it had denuded him of his old dignity.
"I know Carlesi is in this building," was the girl's deliberate announcement.
"And what makes you think that?"
"I don't think it, I know it."
Then came still another interim of silence. Lambert was plainly not sure of his ground.
"And what do you intend to do? "
"I intend to see him."
"Then you're on the wrong trail."
"Can I never look for the truth from you?"
"Carlesi's on a freighter—on a freighter called the Laminian, anchored down the Bay—on a tramp carrying contraband of war, that's going to take him and you and me to South America."
"You know that neither you nor Carlesi can ever leave New York."
"Can't we? And who'll stop us?" That challenge was mouthed largely, but there was something deeper than concern in the strident voice.
"I don't need to tell you that."
Again Lambert emitted his scoffing laugh.
"Not your cigar-eating mouchard this time, my dear!"
There was a brief intermission of silence as Lam-
