She lifted the pretty little cup to her lips--but the coffee, this coffee
of L'Ami Fritz, his special mixture, as his wife had termed it, had a
rather curious taste, it was slightly bitter--decidedly not so nice as
that which she was accustomed to drink each day after déjeuner at the
Villa du Lac. Surely it would be very foolish to risk a bad night for
a small cup of indifferent coffee?

She put the cup down, and pushed it away.

"Please do not ask me to take it," she said firmly. "It really is very
bad for me!"

Madame Wachner shrugged her shoulders with an angry gesture.

"So be it," she said, and then imperiously, "Fritz, will you please come
with me for a moment into the next room? I have something to ask you."

He got up and silently obeyed his wife. Before leaving the room he
slipped the key of the garden gate into his trousers pocket.

A moment later Sylvia, left alone, could hear them talking eagerly to one
another in that strange, unknown tongue in which they sometimes--not
often--addressed one another.

She got up from her chair, seized with a sudden, eager desire to slip
away before they came back. For a moment she even thought of leaving the
house without waiting for her hat and little fancy bag; and then, with a
strange sinking of the heart she remembered that the white gate was
locked, and that L'Ami Fritz had now the key of it in his pocket.