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There had been much talk in the Pension Schwarz about the departure together of the three Americans. The Jew from Galicia still raved over Harmony's beauty. Georgiev rather hoped, by staying by Peter, to be led toward his star. But Peter left him at the Doctors' Club, still amiable, but absolutely obtuse to the question nearest the little spy's heart. The club was almost deserted.
Olga gathered from the tone rather than the words that she was not to be told. She burst into a despairing appeal in which the Herr Georgiev, Peter, a necktie Peter had forgotten, open windows, and hot water were inextricably confused. Dr. Jennings listened, then waved her back with a gesture. "She says," she interpreted as they walked on, "that Dr. Peter by which I suppose she means Dr.
Harmony was working on a costume for the Le Grande woman a gold brocade slashed to the knee at one side and with a fragment of bodice made of gilt tissue. On the day after her encounter with Georgiev she met her. There was a dispute over the gown, something about the draping. Monia, flushed with irritation, came to the workroom door and glanced over the girls.
Peter dropped on his baggy knees beside the bed and drew the little wasted figure to him. "I think you'll surely see him this year, old man," he said huskily. Peter walked to the Doctors' Club. On the way he happened on little Georgiev, the Bulgarian, and they went on together.
Made intelligible, it was that he had found her at last. Harmony held her spools of thread and waited for the storm of languages to subside. Then: "But you are not to say you have seen me, Herr Georgiev." "No?" Harmony colored. "I am am hiding," she explained. "Something very uncomfortable happened and I came here. Please don't say you have seen me." Georgiev was puzzled at first.
He had given up the coffee-houses that he might spend that hour near her, on the chance of seeing her or, failing that, of hearing her play. At night in the Cafe Hungaria he sat for hours at a time, his elbows on the table, a bottle of native wine before him, and dreamed of her. He was very fat, the little Georgiev, very swarthy, very pathetic.
"Oh, what have I done? If I had known about the pigeon " Georgiev recovered himself. "The Fraulein can do nothing wrong," he said. "It is a matter of an hour's delay, that is all. It may not be too late." Monia Reiff, from the next room, called loudly for more coffee. The sulky Hungarian brought it without a glance in their direction. "Too late for what?"
Standing in the upper hall, much as he had stood that morning over the ammunition boxes, thumbs in, heels in, toes out, chest out, was the sentry. Harmony's first thought was of Georgiev and more searching of the building. Then she saw that the sentry's impassive face wore lines of trouble. He saluted. "Please, Fraulein." "Yes?" "I have not told the Herr Doktor." "I thank you."
Georgiev, hands behind his head and eyes upturned, was back in the Pension Schwarz that night months ago when Harmony played the "Humoresque" and Peter stooped outside her door. The little Bulgarian sighed and dreamed. Harmony, a little sadder, a little more forlorn each day, pursued her hopeless quest.
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