Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. She had gone into Morgan's one afternoon for a bag of salt. The blow was scarcely dealt, when, with a bound like that of a tiger, Blueskin sprang upon him. She did not have to investigate that his door was locked. He had his sections of the Siegfried map folded in his pocket, and he squatted up with his legs crossed like an Indian idol while she lay prone beside him and followed every movement of his indicatory finger. She turned to Martha as the lad exited by the back door, but her nurse forestalled anything she might have said.
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