He would know her address to-morrow. ‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently. CHAPTER XVIII. Michelle moaned and Lucy, unable to help herself, stroked her hair. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. “Oh, dammit!” he remarked, “dammit!” with great bitterness as he faced it. . Swiftly following the sound of knocking, she crossed right and passed through a door near the windows—and found herself in the bookroom. “I shall leave the flat to you and go to a hotel.
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