ent out of her life, indeed, as
unobtrusively as he had entered it.

The carrier pigeon preened itself comfortably on the edge of the
washstand. Harmony ceased her hysterical crying at last and pondered
what was best to do. Monia was still breakfasting so incredibly brief
are great moments. After a little thought Harmony wrote a tiny message,
English, German, and French, and inclosed it in the brass tube.

"The Herr Georgiev has been arrested," she wrote. An hour later the
carrier rose lazily from the window-sill, flapped its way over
the church roof and disappeared, like Georgiev, out of her life.
Grim-visaged war had touched her and passed on.

The incident was not entirely closed, however. A search of the building
followed the capture of the little spy. Protesting tenants were turned
out, beds were dismantled, closets searched, walls sounded for hidden
hollows. In one room on Harmony's floor was found stored a quantity of
ammunition.

It was when the three men who had conducted the search had finished,
when the boxes of ammunition had been gathered in the hall, and the
chattering sewing-girls had gone back to work, that Harmony, on her way
to her dismantled room, passed through the upper passage.

She glanced down the staircase where little Georgiev had so manfully
descended.

"I carry always in my heart your image. Always so long as I live."

The clatter of soldiers on their way down to the street came to her
ears; the soft cooing of the pigeons, the whirr of sewing-machines from
the workroom. The incident was closed, except for the heap of ammunition
boxes on the landing, guarded by an impassive soldier.

Harmony glanced at him. He was eying her steadily, thumbs in, heels in,
toes out, chest out. Harmony put her hand to her heart.

"You!" she said.

The conversation of a sentry, save on a holiday is, "Yea, yea," and
"Nay, nay."

"Yes, Fraulein."

Harmony put her hands together, a little gesture of appeal, infinitely
touching.

"You will not say that you have found, have seen me?"

"No, Fraulein."

It was in Harmony's mind to ask all her hungry heart craved to learn--of
Peter, of Jimmy, of the Portier, of anything that belonged to the old
life in the Siebensternstrasse. But there was no time. The sentry's
impassive face became rigid; he looked through her, not at her. Harmony
turned.

The man in the green hat was coming up the staircase. There was no
further chance to question. The sentry was s