train,
remembering vividly how her heart history with Davidge had begun on a
train. She missed him now, and his self-effacing gallantry.

The man opposite her wanted to be cordial, but his motive was ill
concealed, and Mamise treated him as if he didn't quite exist.
Suddenly she remembered with a gasp that she had never paid Davidge
for that chair he gave up to her. She vowed again that she would not
forget. She felt a deep remorse, too, for a day of lies and tricks.
She regretted especially the necessity of deceiving Davidge. It was
her privilege to hoodwink Polly and other people, but she had no right
to deceive Davidge. She was beginning to feel that she belonged to
him.

She resolved to atone for these new transgressions, too, as well as
her old, by getting over to France as soon as possible and subjecting
herself to a self-immolation among hardships. After the war--assuming
that the war would soon end and that she would come out of it
alive--afterward she could settle down and perhaps marry Davidge.

Reveling in these pleasantly miserable schemes, she was startled to
find Baltimore already gathering round the train. And she had not even
begun to organize her stratagems against Nicky Easton. She made a
hasty exit from the car and sought the cab-ranks outside.

From the shadows a shadowy man semi-detached himself, lifted his hat,
and motioned her to an open door. She bent her head down and her
knees up and entered a little room on wheels.

Nicky had evidently given the chauffeur instructions, for as soon as
Nicky had come in, doubled up, and seated himself the limousine moved
off--into what adventures? Mamise was wondering.

BOOK VI

IN BALTIMORE

[Illustration: "So I have already done something more for Germany. That's
splendid. Now tell me what else I can do." Nicky was too intoxicated with
his success to see through her thin disguise.]

CHAPTER I

Mamise remembered her earlier visits to Baltimore as a tawdry young
vaudevillette. She had probably walked from the station, lugging her
own valise, to some ghastly theatrical boarding-house. Perhaps some
lover of hers had carried her baggage for her. If so, she had
forgotten just which one of her experiences he was.

Now she hoped to be even more obscure and unconsidered than she had
been then, when a little attention was meat and drink, and her name in
the paper was a sensation. She knew that publicity, like love, flees
whoso pursueth and p