And afterward, while Harmony in the sickroom read aloud and Jimmy put the wooden sentry into the cage to keep order, he got out his books and tried to study.  But he did little work.  His book lay on his knee, his pipe died beside him.  The strangeness of the situation came over him, sitting there, and left him rather frightened.  He tried to see it from the viewpoint of an outsider, and found himself incredulous and doubting.  McLean would resent the situation.  Even the Portier was a person to reckon with.  The skepticism of the American colony was a thing to fear and avoid.

And over all hung the incessant worry about money; he could just manage alone.  He could not, by any method he knew of, stretch his resources to cover a separate arrangement for himself.  But he had undertaken to shield a girl-woman and a child, and shield them he would and could.

Brave thoughts were Peter’s that snowy morning in the great salon of Maria Theresa, with the cat of the Portier purring before the fire; brave thoughts, cool reason, with Harmony practicing scales very softly while Jimmy slept, and with Anna speeding through a white world, to the accompaniment of bitter meditation.

Peter had meant to go to Semmering that day, but even the urgency of Marie’s need faded before his own situation.  He wired Stewart that he would come as soon as he could, and immediately after lunch departed for the club, Anna’s list in his pocket, Harmony’s requirements in mind.  He paused at Jimmy’s door on his way out.

“What shall it be to-day?” he inquired.  “A postcard or a crayon?”

“I wish I could have a dog.”

“We’ll have a dog when you are better and can take him walking.  Wait until spring, son.”

“Some more mice?”

“You will have them—­but not to-day.”

“What holiday comes next?”

“New Year’s Day.  Suppose I bring you a New Year’s card.”

“That’s right,” agreed Jimmy.  “One I can send to Dad.  Do you think he will come back this year?” wistfully.

Peter dropped on his baggy knees beside the bed and drew the little wasted figure to him.

“I think you’ll surely see him this year, old man,” he said huskily.

Peter walked to the Doctors’ Club.  On the way he happened on little Georgiev, the Bulgarian, and they went on together.  Peter managed to make out that Georgiev was studying English, and that he desired to know the state of health and the abode of the Fraulein Wells.  Peter evaded the latter by the simple expedient of pretending not to understand.  The little Bulgarian watched him earnestly, his smouldering eyes not without suspicion.  There had been much talk in the Pension Schwarz about the departure together of the three Americans.  The Jew from Galicia still raved over Harmony’s beauty.

Georgiev rather hoped, by staying by Peter, to be led toward his star.  But Peter left him at the Doctors’ Club, still amiable, but absolutely obtuse to the question nearest the little spy’s heart.