Stewart, awakening from the contemplation of this poignant drama—one of thousands such enacting at that moment all over Europe—realized that he was lingering unduly and hastened his steps. At the end of five minutes, he was again in the wide Franzstrasse, and, turning the last corner, saw his landlady standing at her door, looking anxiously up and down the street.
Her face brightened with relief when she saw him—a relief so evidently deep and genuine that Stewart was a little puzzled by it.
"But I am glad to see you!" she cried as he came up, her face wreathed in smiles. "I was imagining the most horrible things. I feared I know not what! But you are safe, it seems."
"Quite safe. In fact, I was never in any danger."
"I was foolish, no doubt, to have fear. But in times like these, one never knows what may happen."
"True enough," Stewart agreed. "Still, an American with a passport in his pocket ought to be safe anywhere."
"Ah; you have a passport—that is good. That will simplify matters. The police have been here to question you. They will return presently."
"The police?"
"There have been some spies captured, it seems. And there are many who are trying to leave the country. So everyone is suspected. You are not German-born, I hope? If you were, I fear not even your passport would be of use."
They had walked back together along the hall as they talked, and now stopped at the foot of the stair. The landlady seemed very nervous—as was perhaps natural amid the alarms of war. She scarcely listened to his assurance that he was American by birth. Little beads of perspiration stood out across her forehead——
"The police visited your room," she rattled on. "You will perhaps find your baggage disarranged."
Stewart smiled wryly.
"So it seems they really suspect me?"
"They suspect everyone," the landlady repeated.
She was standing with her back toward the door, and Stewart wondered why she should watch his face so closely.
Suddenly, over her shoulder, he saw the ugly waiter with the hang-dog air approaching along the hall.
"Such anxiety is quite natural," said the landlady rapidly in German, raising her voice a little. "I can understand it. But it is not remarkable that you should have missed her—the trains are so irregular. I will send her to you the moment she arrives. Ah, Hans," she added, turning at the sound of the waiter's footsteps, "so you are back at last! You will take up some hot water to the gentleman at once. And now you will excuse me, sir; I have the dinner to attend to," and she hurried away, carrying the waiter with her.
Stewart stood for an instant staring after her; then he turned and mounted slowly to his room. But what had the woman meant? Why should he be anxious? Who was it he had missed? "I will send her to you the moment she arrives." No—she could not have said that—it was impossible that she should have said that. He must have misunderstood; his German was very second-rate, and she had spoken rapidly. But whathadshe said?
He was still pondering this problem, when a knock at the door told him that the hot water had arrived. As he opened the door, the landlady's voice came shrilly up the stair.
"Hans!" she called. "There is something wrong with the stove. Hasten! Hasten!"
Stewart took the can which was thrust hastily into his hand, turned back into the room, and proceeded to make a leisurely toilet. If the landlady had not told him, he would never have suspected that his baggage had been searched by the police, for everything seemed to be where he had left it. But then he was a hasty and careless packer, by no means precise——
That vague feeling of uneasiness which had shaken him in the church swept over him again, stronger than before; there was something wrong somewhere; the meshes of an invisible net seemed closing about him. More than once he caught himself standing quite still, in an attitude of profound meditation, though he was not conscious that he had really been thinking of anything. Evidently the events of the day had shaken him more deeply than he had realized.
"Come, old man," he said at last, "this won't do. Pull yourself together."
And then a sudden vivid memory rose before him of those praying women, of that wrinkled mother gazing despairingly after her youngest born as he was marched away perhaps forever, of the set faces of the crowd shuffling silently homeward——
He had been absently turning over the contents of one of his bags, searching for a necktie, when he found himself staring at a pair of satin ball-slippers, into each of which was stuffed a blue silk stocking. For quite a minute he stared, doubting his own senses; then he picked up one of the slippers and looked at it.
It was a tiny affair, very delicate and beautiful—a real jewel in footwear, such as Stewart, with his limited feminine experience, had never seen before. Indeed, he might have doubted that they were intended for actual service, but for the slight discoloration inside the heel, which proved that these had been worn more than once. Very deliberately he drew out the stocking, also a jewel in its way, of a texture so diaphanous as to be almost cobweblike. Then he picked up the other slipper and held them side by side. Yes, they were mates——
"But where on earth could I have picked them up?" he asked himself. "In what strange fit of absent-mindedness could I have packed them with my things? But I couldn't have picked them up—I never saw them before——"
He sat down suddenly, a slipper in either hand. They must have come from somewhere—they could not have concealed themselves among his things. If he had not placed them there, then someone else had. But who? And for what purpose? The police? His landlady had said that they had searched his luggage; but what possible object could they have had for increasing it by two satin slippers and a pair of stockings? Such an action was farcical—French-farcical!—but he could not be incriminated in such a way. He had no wife to be made jealous! And even if he had——
"This is the last straw!" he muttered to himself. "Either the world has gone mad, or I have."
Moving as in a dream, he placed the slippers side by side upon the floor, contemplated them for a moment longer, and then proceeded slowly with his dressing. He found an unaccustomed difficulty in putting his buttons in his cuffs, and then he remembered that it was a tie he had been looking for when he found the slippers. The slippers! He turned and glanced at them. Yes—they were still there—they had not vanished. Very coquettish they appeared, standing there side by side, as though waiting for their owner.
And suddenly Stewart smiled a crooked smile.
"Only one thing is necessary to complete this pantomime," he told himself, "and that is that the Princess should suddenly appear and claim them. Well, I'm willing! A woman with a foot like that——"
There was a knock at the door.
"In a moment!" he called.
"But it is I!" cried a woman's voice in English—a sweet, high-pitched voice, quivering with excitement. "It is I!" and the door was flung open with a crash.
A woman rushed toward him—he saw vaguely her vivid face, her shining eyes; behind her, more vaguely still, he saw the staring eyes of the hang-dog waiter. Then she was upon him.
"At last!" she cried, and flung her arms about him and kissed him on the lips—kissed him closely, passionately, as he had never been kissed before.
Stewart, standing petrified, collar in hand, thrilling with the warmth of that caress, was conscious that his free arm had dropped about the woman's waist, and that she was cuddling to him, patting him excitedly on the cheek and smiling up into his eyes. Then, over her shoulder, he caught a glimpse of the sardonic smile on the ugly face of the waiter as he withdrew and closed the door.
"But how glad I am!" the woman rattled on, at the top of her voice. "And what a journey! I am covered with dirt! I shall need gallons of water!"
She walked rapidly to the door, opened it, and looked out. Then she closed and locked it, and, to his amazement, caught up one of his handkerchiefs and hung it over the knob so that it masked the keyhole.
"They will not suspect," she said, in a lower tone, noticing his look. "They will suppose it is to conceal our marital endearments! Now we can talk. But we will keep to English, if you do not mind. Someone might pass. Is everything arranged? Is the passport in order?"
Her eyes were shining with excitement, her lips were trembling. As he still stood staring, she came close to him and shook his arm.
"Can it be that you do not know English?" she demanded. "But that would be too stupid! You understand English, do you not?"
"Yes, madam," stammered Stewart. "At least, I have always thought so."
"Then why do you not answer? Is anything wrong? You look as though you did not expect me."
"Madam," answered Stewart, gravely, "will you kindly pinch me on the arm—here in the tender part? I have been told that is a test."
She nipped him with a violence that made him jump.
"Do not tell me that you are drunk!" she hissed, viciously. "That would be too much! Drunk at such a moment!"
But Stewart had begun to pull himself together.
"No, madam, I am not drunk," he assured her; "and your pinch convinces me that I am not dreaming." He rubbed his arm thoughtfully. "There remains only one hypothesis—that I have suddenly gone mad. And yet I have never heard of any madness in my family, nor until this moment detected any symptoms in myself."
"Is this a time for fooling?" she snapped. "Tell me at once—"
"There is, of course, another hypothesis," went on Stewart, calmly, "and that is that it is you who are mad—"
"Were you not expecting me?" she repeated.
Stewart's eyes fell upon the satin slippers, and he smiled.
"Why, certainly I was expecting you," he answered. "I was just saying to myself that the only thing lacking in this fairy-tale was the beautiful Cinderella—and presto; there you were!"
She looked at him wildly, her eyes dark with fear. Suddenly she caught her lower lip between the thumb and little finger of her left hand, and stood a moment expectantly, holding it so and staring up at him. Then, as he stared back uncomprehendingly, she dropped into a chair and burst into a flood of tears.
Now a pretty woman in tears is, as everyone knows, a sight to melt a heart of stone, especially if that heart be masculine. This woman was extremely pretty, and Stewart's heart was very masculine, with nothing granitic about it.
"Oh, come," he protested, "it can't be so bad as that! Let us sit down and talk this thing out quietly. Evidently there is a mistake somewhere."
"Then you did not expect me?" she demanded, mopping her eyes.
"Expect you? No—except as the fulfillment of a fairy-tale."
"You do not know who I am?"
"I haven't the slightest idea."
"Nor why I am here?"
"No."
"Ah, ciel!" she breathed, "then I am lost!" and she turned so pale that Stewart thought she was going to faint.
"Lost!" he protested. "In what way lost? What do you mean?"
By a mighty effort she fought back the faintness and regained a little of her self-control.
"At this hotel," she explained, in a hoarse voice, "I was to have met a man who was to accompany me across the frontier. He had a passport for both of us—for himself and for his wife."
"You were to pass as his wife?"
"Yes."
"But you did not know the man?"
"Evidently—or I should not have—"
She stopped, her face crimson with embarrassment.
"H-m!" said Stewart, reflecting that he, at least, had no reason to regret the mistake. "Perhaps this unknown is in some other room."
"No; you are the only person in the hotel."
"Evidently, then, he has not arrived."
"Evidently," she assented, and stared moodily at the floor, twisting her handkerchief in nervous, trembling hands.
Stewart rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he looked at her. She seemed not more than twenty, and she was almost startlingly beautiful, with that peculiar lustrous duskiness of skin more common among the Latin races than with us. Slightly built, she yet gave the impression of having in reserve unusual nervous energy, which would brace her to meet any crisis.
But what was she doing here? Why should she be driven to leave Germany as the wife of a man whom she had never seen? Or was it all a lie—was she merely an adventuress seeking a fresh victim?
Stewart looked at her again, then he put that thought away, definitely and forever. He had had enough experience of women, as surgeon in a public clinic, to tell innocence from vice; and he knew that it was innocence he was facing now.
"You say you can't leave Germany without a passport?" he asked at last.
"No one can leave Germany without a passport." She sat up suddenly and looked at him, a new light in her eyes. "Is it possible," she demanded, with trembling lips, "can it be possible that you possess a passport?"
"Why, yes," said Stewart, "I have a passport. Unfortunately, it is for myself alone. Never having had a wife——"
But she was standing before him, her hands outstretched, tremulous with eagerness.
"Let me see it!" she cried. "Oh, let me see it!"
He got it out, gave it to her, and watched her as she unfolded it. Here was a woman, he told himself, such as he had never met before—a woman of verve, of fire——
She was looking up at him with flaming eyes.
"Mr. Stewart," she said, in a low voice, "you can save me, if you will."
"Save you?" echoed Stewart. "But how?"
She held the open passport toward him.
"See, here, just below your name, there is a blank space covered with little parallel lines. If you will permit me to write in that space the words 'accompanied by his wife,' I am saved. The passport will then be for both of us."
"Or would be," agreed Stewart, dryly, "if you were my wife. As it happens, you are not!"
"It is such a little thing I ask of you," she pleaded. "We go to the station together—we take our seats in the train—at the frontier you show your passport. An hour later we shall be at Liège, and there our ways will part; but you will have done a noble action."
There was witchery in her eyes, in her voice. Stewart felt himself slipping—slipping; but he caught himself in time.
"I am afraid," he said, gently, "that you will have to tell me first what it is all about."
"I can tell you in a word," she answered, drawing very near to him, and speaking almost in a whisper. "I am a Frenchwoman."
"But surely," Stewart protested, "the Germans will not prevent your return to France! Why should they do that?"
"It is not a question of returning, but of escaping. I am an Alsatian. I was born at Strassburg."
"Oh," said Stewart, remembering the tone in which Bloem had spoken of Alsace-Lorraine and beginning vaguely to understand. "An Alsatian."
"Yes; but only Alsatians understand the meaning of that word. To be an Alsatian is to be a slave, is to be the victim of insult, oppression, tyranny past all belief. My father was murdered by the Germans; my two brothers have been dragged away into the German army and sent to fight the Russians, since Germany knows well that no Alsatian corps would fight the French! Oh, how we have prayed and prayed for this war of restitution—the war which will give us back to France!"
"Yes; I hope it will," agreed Stewart, heartily.
"Of a certainty you do!" she said, eagerly. "All Americans do. Not one have I ever known who took the German side. How could they? How could any American be on the side of despotism? Oh, impossible! America is on our side! And you, as an American, will assist me to escape my enemies."
"Your enemies?"
"I will not deceive you," she said, earnestly. "I trust you. I have lived all my life at Strassburg and at Metz, those two outposts against France—those two great fortresses of cities which the Germans have done their utmost to make impregnable, but which are not impregnable if attacked in a certain way. They have their weak spot, just as every fortress has. I have dissembled, I have lied—I have pretended to admire the gold-laced pigs—I have permitted them to kiss my hand—I have listened to their confidences, their hopes and fears—I have even joined in their toast 'The Day!' Always, always have I kept my eyes and ears open. Bit by bit, have I gathered what I sought—a hint here, a hint there.... I must get to France, my friend, and you must help me! Surely you will be glad to strike a blow at these braggart Prussians! It is not for myself I ask it—though, if I am taken, there will be for me only one brief moment, facing a file of soldiers; I ask it for France—for your sister Republic!"
If it had been for France alone, Stewart might still have hesitated; but as he gazed down into that eloquent face, wrung with desperate anxiety, he seemed to see, as in a vision, a file of soldiers in spiked helmets facing a wall where stood a lovely girl, her eyes flaming, her head flung back, smiling contemptuously at the leveled rifles; he saw again the flickering candles at the Virgin's feet——
"Very well," he said, abruptly—almost harshly. "I consent."
Before he could draw back, she had flung herself on her knees before him, had caught his hand, and was covering it with tears and kisses.
"Come, come, my dear," he said. "That won't do!" And he bent over her and raised her to her feet.
She was shaken with great sobs, and as she turned her streaming eyes up to him, her lips moving as if in prayer, Stewart saw how young she was, how lonely, how beautiful, how greatly in need of help. She had been fighting for her country with all her strength, with every resource, desperately, every nerve a-strain—and victory had been too much for her. But in a moment she had back her self-control.
"There, it is finished!" she said, smiling through her tears. "But the joy of your words was almost too great. I shall not behave like that again. And I shall not try to thank you. I think you understand—I cannot thank you—there are no words great enough."
Stewart nodded, smilingly.
"Yes; I understand," he said.
"We have many things to do," she went on, rapidly, passing her handkerchief across her eyes with the gesture of one who puts sentiment aside. "First, the passport," and she caught it up from the chair on which she had laid it.
"I would point out to you," said Stewart, "that there may be a certain danger in adding the words you mentioned."
"But it is precisely for those words this blank space has been left."
"That may be true; but unless your handwriting is identical with that on the rest of the passport, and the ink the same, the first person who looks at it will detect the forgery."
"Trust me," she said, and drawing a chair to the table, laid the passport before her and studied it carefully. From the little bag she had carried on her arm, she took a fountain-pen. She tested it on her finger-nail, and then, easily and rapidly, wrote "accompanied by his wife" across the blank space below Stewart's name.
Stewart, staring down over her shoulder, was astonished by the cleverness of the forgery. It was perfect.
"There," she added, "let it lie for five minutes and no one on earth can tell that those words were not written at the same time and by the same hand as all the others."
A sudden doubt shook her hearer. Where had she learned to forge like that? Perhaps, after all——
She read his thought in his eyes.
"To imitate handwriting is something which every member of the secret service must learn to do. This, on your passport, is a formal hand very easily imitated. But I must rid myself of this pen."
She glanced quickly about the room, went to the open fireplace and threw the pen above the bricks which closed it off from the flue. Then she came back, motioned him to sit down, and drew a chair very close to his.
"Now we have certain details to arrange," she said. "Your name is Bradford Stewart?"
"Yes."
"Have you a sobriquet?"
"A what?"
"A name of familiarity," she explained, "used only by your family or your friends."
"Oh, a nickname! Well," he admitted, unwillingly, "my father always called me Tommy."
"Tommy! Excellent! I shall call you Tommy!"
"But I detest Tommy," he objected.
"No matter!" she said, peremptorily. "It will have to do. What is your profession?"
"I am a surgeon."
"Where do you live in America?"
"At Baltimore, in the State of Maryland."
"Where have you been in Europe?"
"To a clinical congress at Vienna, and then back through Germany."
"Perfect! It could not be better! Now, listen most carefully. The name of your wife is Mary. You have been married four years."
"Any children?" asked Stewart.
"Please be serious!" she protested, but from the sparkle in her eye Stewart saw that she was not offended.
"I should have liked a boy of three and a girl of two," he explained. "But no matter—go ahead."
"While you went to Vienna to attend your horrible clinic and learn new ways of cutting up human bodies, your wife remained at Spa, because of a slight nervous affection——"
"From which," said Stewart, "I am happy to see that she has entirely recovered."
"Yes," she agreed; "she is quite well again. Spa is in Belgium, so the Germans cannot disprove the story. We arranged to meet here and to go on to Brussels together. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly," said Stewart, who was thoroughly enjoying himself. "By the way, Mary," he added, "no doubt it was your shoes and stockings I found in my grip awhile ago," and he pointed to where the slippers stood side by side.
His companion stared at them for an instant in amazement, then burst into a peal of laughter.
"How ridiculous! But yes—they were intended for mine."
"How did they get into my luggage?"
"The woman who manages this inn placed them there. She is one of us."
"But what on earth for?"
"So that the police might find them when they searched your bags."
"Why should they search my bags?"
"There is a certain suspicion attaching to this place. It is impossible altogether to avoid it—so it is necessary to be very careful. The landlady thought that the discovery of the slippers might, in a measure, prepare the police for the arrival of your wife."
"Then she knew you were coming?"
"Certainly—since last night."
"And when the man who was to meet you did not arrive, she decided that I would do?"
"I suppose so."
"But how did she know I had a passport?"
"Perhaps you told her."
Yes, Stewart reflected, he had told her, and yet he was not altogether satisfied. When had he told her? Surely it was not until he returned from his tour of the town; then there was not time——
"Here is your passport," said his companion, abruptly breaking in upon his thoughts. "Fold it up and place it in your pocket. And do not find it too readily when the police ask for it. You must seem not to know exactly where it is. Also pack your belongings. Yes, you would better include the slippers. Meanwhile I shall try to make myself a little presentable," and she opened the tiny bag from which she had produced the pen.
"It seems to me," said Stewart, as he proceeded to obey, "that one pair of slippers and one pair of stockings is rather scanty baggage for a lady who has been at Spa for a month."
"My baggage went direct from Spa to Brussels," she answered from before the mirror, "in order to avoid the customs examination at the frontier. Have you any other questions?"
"Only the big one as to who you really are, and where I'm going to see you again after you have delivered your report—and all that."
His back was toward her as he bent over his bags, and he did not see the quick glance she cast at him.
"It is impossible to discuss that now," she said, hastily. "And I would warn you that the servant, Hans, is a spy. Be very careful before him—be careful always, until we are safe across the frontier. There will be spies everywhere—a false word, a false movement, and all may be lost. Are you ready?"
Stewart, rising from buckling the last strap, found himself confronting the most adorable girl he had ever seen. Every trace of the journey had disappeared. Her cheeks were glowing, her eyes were shining, and when she smiled, Stewart noticed a dimple set diagonally at the corner of her mouth—a dimple evidently placed just there to invite and challenge kisses.
The admiration which flamed into his eyes was perhaps a trifle too ardent, for, looking at him steadily, she took a quick step toward him.
"We are going to be good friends, are we not?" she asked. "Good comrades?"
And Stewart, looking down at her, understood. She was pleading for respect; she was telling him that she trusted him; she was reminding him of the defenselessness of her girlhood, driven by hard necessity into this strange adventure. And, understanding, he reached out and caught her hand.
"Yes," he agreed. "Good comrades. Just that!"
She gave his fingers a swift pressure.
"Thank you," she said. "Now we must go down. Dinner will be waiting. Fortunately the train is very late."
Stewart, glancing at his watch, saw that it was almost six o'clock.
"You are sure it is late?" he asked.
"Yes; at least an hour. We will send someone to inquire. Remember what I have told you about the waiter—about everyone. Not for an instant must we drop the mask, even though we may think ourselves unobserved. You will remember?"
"I will try to," Stewart promised. "But don't be disappointed if you find me a poor actor. I am not in your class at all. However, if you'll give me the cue, I think I can follow it."
"I know you can. Come," and she opened the door, restoring him the handkerchief which she had hung over the knob.
As they went down the stair together, Stewart saw the landlady waiting anxiously at the foot. One glance at them, and her face became radiant.
"Ah, you are late!" she cried, shaking a reproving finger. "But I expected it. I would not permit Hans to call you. When husband and wife meet after a long separation, they do not wish to be disturbed—not even for dinner. This way! I have placed the table in the court—it is much pleasanter there when the days are so warm," and she bustled before them to a vine-shaded corner of the court, where a snowy table awaited them.
A moment later Hans entered with the soup. Stewart, happening to meet his glance, read the suspicion there.
"Well," he said, breaking off a piece of the crisp bread, "this is almost like home, isn't it? I can't tell you, Mary, how glad I am to have you back again," and he reached out and gave her hand a little squeeze. "Looking so well, too. Spa was evidently just the place for you."
"Yes—it was very pleasant and the doctor was very kind. But I am glad to get back to you, Tommy," she added, gazing at him fondly. "I could weep with joy just to look at that honest face of yours!"
Stewart felt his heart skip a beat.
"You will make me conceited, if you don't take care, old lady!" he protested. "And surely I've got enough cause for conceit already, with the most beautiful woman in the world sitting across from me, telling me she loves me. Don't blame me if I lose my head a little!"
The ardor in his tone brought the color into her cheeks.
"You must not look at me like that!" she reproved. "People will think we are on our moon of—our honeymoon," she corrected, hastily.
"Instead of having been married four years! I wonder how John and Sallie are getting along? Aren't you just crazy to see the kids!"
She choked over her soup, but managed to nod mutely. Then, as Hans removed the plates and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, he added in a lower tone, "You must allow me the children. I find I can't be happy without them!"
"Very well," she agreed, the dimple sparkling. "You have been so kind that it is impossible for me to refuse you anything!"
"There is one thing I can't understand. Your English astonishes me. Where did you learn to speak it so perfectly?"
"Ah, that is a long story! Perhaps I shall one day tell it to you—if we ever meet again."
"We must! I demand that as my reward!"
She held up a warning finger as steps sounded along the passage; but it was only the landlady bringing the wine. That good woman was exuberant—a trifle too exuberant, as Stewart's companion told her with a quick glance.
The dinner proceeded from course to course. Stewart had never enjoyed a meal more thoroughly. What meal, he asked himself, could possibly be commonplace, shared by such a woman?
The landlady presently dispatched Hans to the station to inquire about the train, while she herself did the serving, and the two women ventured to exchange a few words concerning their instructions. Stewart, listening, caught a glimpse of an intricate system of espionage extending to the very heart of Germany. But he asked no questions; indeed, some instinct held him back from wishing to know more. "Spy" is not a pretty word, nor is a spy's work pretty work; he refused to think of it in connection with the lovely girl opposite him.
"We shall have the police with us soon," said the landlady, in a low tone. "Hans will run at once to tell them of Madame's arrival."
"Why do you keep him?" Stewart asked.
"It is by keeping him that I avert suspicion. If there was anything wrong here, the police tell themselves, this spy of theirs would discover it. Knowing him to be a spy, I am on my guard. Besides, he is very stupid. But there—I will leave you. He may be back at any moment."
He came back just in time to serve the coffee, with the information that their train would not arrive until seven-thirty; then he stood watching them and listening to their talk of home and friends and plans for the future.
Stewart began to be proud of his facility of invention, and of his abilities as an actor. But he had to admit that he was the merest bungler compared with his companion. Her mental quickness dazzled him, her high spirits were far more exhilarating than the wine. He ended by forgetting that he was playing a part. This woman was really his wife, they were going on together——
Suddenly Hans stirred in his corner. Heavy steps were coming toward the court along the sanded floor of the corridor. In a moment three men in spiked helmets stepped out into the fading light of the evening.
"The police to speak to you, sir," said Hans, and Stewart, turning, found himself looking into three faces, in which hostility and suspicion were only too apparent.
As the three men advanced to the table, Stewart saw that each of them carried a heavy pistol in a holster at his belt.
"You speak German?" one of them asked, gruffly.
"A little. But I would prefer to speak English," answered Stewart.
"We will speak German. What is your nationality?"
"I am an American."
"Were you born in America?"
"Yes."
"Have you a passport?"
"Yes."
"Let me see it."
Stewart was about to reach into his pocket and produce it, when he remembered his companion's suggestion. So he felt in one pocket after another without result, while the Germans shifted impatiently from foot to foot.
"It must be in my other coat," he said, half to himself, enjoying the situation immensely. "But no; I do not remember changing it. Ah, here it is!" and he drew it forth and handed it to the officer.
The latter took it, unfolded it, and stepped out into the court where the light was better. He read it through carefully, compared the description point by point with Stewart's appearance, and then came back to the table.
"Who is this person?" he asked, and nodded toward the girl.
"She is my wife," answered Stewart, with a readiness which astonished himself.
"She did not arrive here with you."
"No," and he told the story of how he had left her at Spa to recuperate from a slight nervous attack, while he himself went on to Vienna. He omitted no detail—even added a few, indeed, in the fervor of creation—and with his limited German, which his hearers regarded with evident contempt, the story took some time to tell.
The police listened attentively to every word, without the slightest sign of impatience, but long before it was ended, the lady in question was twisting nervously in her seat.
"What is the matter, Tommy?" she demanded, petulantly. "Are you relating to them the story of your life?"
"No," he explained, blandly, venturing at last to look at her, "I was just telling them how it was that you and I had arranged to meet at this hotel."
"Well—now tell them to go away. They are ugly and they annoy me."
"What does she say?" asked the officer.
Stewart was certain that at least one of them knew English, so he judged it best to translate literally.
"She wants to know what is the matter," he answered. "She asks me to tell you to go away—that you annoy her."
The officer smiled grimly.
"She does not understand German?"
"Not a word," lied Stewart, glibly.
"What is her name?"
"Mary."
"Her maiden name?"
"Mary Agnes Fleming," answered Stewart, repeating the first name that occurred to him, and thanking his stars the next instant that the officer could scarcely be acquainted with the lesser lights of English fiction.
"Is that correct?" asked the officer, suddenly turning upon her.
Stewart's heart gave a leap of fear; but after a stare at the officer, she turned to her companion.
"Was he speaking to me, Tommy?" she asked; and it was only by a heroic effort that Stewart choked back the sudden snort of laughter that rose in his throat.
"Yes," he managed to answer; "he wants to know your maiden name."
"Why should he wish to know that?"
"I give it up; but you'd better tell him."
"My maiden name was Mary Agnes Fleming," she said, looking at the officer with evident disapprobation. "Though what concern it is of yours I cannot see."
"What does she say?" demanded the officer, and again Stewart translated literally.
The officer stood staring intently at both of them, till the lady, with a flash of indignation, turned her back.
"Really, Tommy," she said, over her shoulder, "if you do not at once get rid of this brute, I shall never speak to you again!"
"He is a policeman, dear," Stewart explained, "and imagines that he is doing his duty. I suppose theydohave to be careful in war-time. We must be patient."
"I will look at her passport," said the German, suddenly, and held out his hand.
"My passport is for both of us," Stewart explained. "Those words 'accompanied by his wife,' make it inclusive."
The officer went out into the light again and examined the words with minute attention.
"I find no description of her," he said, coming back.
"There is none," assented Stewart, impatiently; "but there is a description of me, as you see. The passport adds that I am accompanied by my wife. I tell you that this lady is my wife. That is sufficient."
The officer glanced at his companions uncertainly. Then he slowly folded up the passport and handed it back.
"When do you depart from Aachen?" he asked.
"By the first train for Brussels. I am told that it will arrive in about half an hour."
"Very well," said the other. "I regret if I have seemed insistent, but the fact that the lady did not arrive with you appeared to us singular. I will report your explanation to my chief," and he turned on his heel and stalked away, followed by his men.
Stewart drew a deep breath.
"Well," he began, when he was stopped by a sharp tap from his companion's foot.
"Such impudence!" she cried. "I was astonished at your patience, Tommy! You, an American, letting a Prussian policeman intimidate you like that! I am ashamed of you!"
Glancing around, Stewart saw the hang-dog Hans hovering in the doorway.
"He was a big policeman, my dear," he explained, laughing. "I shouldn't have had much of a chance with him, to say nothing of his two men. If we want to get to Brussels, the safest plan is to answer calmly all the questions the German police can think of. But it is time for us to be going. There will be no reserved seats on this train!"
"You are right," agreed his companion; "I am quite ready."
So he asked for the bill, paid it, sent Hans up for the luggage, and presently they were walking toward the station, with Hans staggering along behind.
Stewart, looking down at his companion, felt more and more elated over the adventure. He had never passed a pleasanter evening—it had just the touch of excitement needed to give it relish. Unfortunately, its end was near; an hour or two in a crowded railway carriage, and—that was all!
She glanced up at him and caught his eyes.
"What is it, my friend?" she asked. "You appear sad."
"I was just thinking," answered Stewart, "that I do not even know your name!"
"Speak lower!" she said, quickly. "Or, better still, do not say such things at all. Do not drop the mask for an instant until we are out of Germany."
"Very well," Stewart promised. "But once we are across the border, I warn you that I intend to throw the mask away, and that I shall have certain very serious things to say to you."
"And I promise to listen patiently," she answered, smiling.
At the entrance to the station, they were stopped by a guard, who demanded their tickets. Stewart was about to produce his, when his companion touched him on the arm.
"Hasten and get them, Tommy," she said. "I will wait here."
And Stewart, as he hurried away, trembled to think how nearly he had blundered. For how could he have explained to the authorities the fact that he was traveling with a book of Cook's circular tickets, while his wife was buying her tickets from station to station?
There was a long line of people in front of the ticket-office, and their progress was slow, for two police officers stood at the head of the line and interrogated every applicant for a ticket before they would permit it to be given him. Stewart, as he moved slowly forward, saw two men jerked violently out of the line and placed under arrest; he wondered uncomfortably if the officers had any instructions with regard to him, but, when his turn came, he faced them as unconcernedly as he was able. He explained that he and his wife were going to Brussels, showed his passport, and finally hastened away triumphant with the two precious bits of pasteboard. It seemed to him that the last difficulty had been encountered and overcome, and it was only by an effort that he kept himself from waving the tickets in the air as he rejoined his companion. In another moment, they were past the barrier. Hans was permitted to enter with them, and mounted guard over the luggage.
The platform was thronged with a motley and excited crowd, among whom were many officers in long gray coats and trailing swords, evidently on their way to join their commands. They were stalking up and down, with a lofty disregard for base civilians, talking loudly, gesticulating fiercely, and stopping ever and anon to shake hands solemnly. Stewart was watching them with an amusement somewhat too apparent, for his companion suddenly passed her arm through his.
"I should like to walk a little," she said. "I have been sitting too long." Then, in a lower tone, as they started along the platform, "It would be more wise not to look at those idiots. They would seek a quarrel with you in an instant if they suspected it was at them you were smiling."
"You are right," Stewart agreed; "besides, there is someone else whom I think much better worth looking at! The officers seem to share my opinion," he added, for more than one head was turned as they walked slowly down the platform. "I shall be jealous in a moment!"
"Do not talk nonsense! Nothing is so absurd as for a man to make love to his wife in public!"
Stewart would have liked to retort that he had, as yet, had mighty few opportunities in private, but he judged it best to save that remark for the other side of the frontier.
"Just the same," she rattled on, "it was good of you to write so regularly while you were at Vienna. I am sure your letters helped with my cure. But you have not told me—have you secured our passage?"
"I will know when we get to Brussels. Cook is trying to get us an outside room on theAdriatic."
"Do we go back to England?"
"Not unless we wish to. We can sail from Cherbourg."
They had reached the end of the platform, and, as they turned, Stewart found himself face to face with a bearded German who had been close behind them, and who shot a sharp glance at him and his companion before stepping aside with a muttered apology. Not until they had passed him did Stewart remember that he had seen the man before. It was the surly passenger in the crowded compartment on the journey from Cologne.
His companion had not seemed to notice the fellow, and went on talking of the voyage home and how glad she would be to get there. Not until they turned again at the farther end, and found the platform for a moment clear around them, did she relax her guard.
"That man is a spy," she whispered, quickly.
"We are evidently still suspected. What sort of railroad ticket have you?"
"A book of Cook's coupons."
"I feared as much. You must rid yourself of it—it is quite possible that you will be searched at the frontier. No, no," she added, as Stewart put his hand to his pocket. "Not here! You would be seen—everything would be lost. I will devise a way."
Stewart reflected with satisfaction that only a few coupons were left in the book. But why should he be searched? He had thought the danger over; but he began uneasily to suspect that it was just beginning. Well, it was too late to draw back, even had he wished to do so; and most emphatically he did not. He was willing to risk a good deal for another hour of this companionship—and then there was that explanation at the end—his reward——
There was a sharp whistle down the line, and the train from Cologne rolled slowly in.
"First class," said Stewart to Hans, as the latter picked up the luggage; and then he realized that they would be fortunate if they got into the train at all. The first five carriages were crowded with soldiers; then there were two carriages half-filled with officers, upon whom no one ventured to intrude. The three rear carriages were already crowded with a motley throng of excited civilians, and Stewart had resigned himself to standing up, when Hans shouted, "This way, sir; this way!" and started to run as fast as the heavy suit-cases would permit.
Stewart, staring after him, saw that an additional carriage was being pushed up to be attached to the train.
"That fellow has more brains than I gave him credit for," he said. "Come along!"
Before the car had stopped, Hans, with a disregard of the regulations which proved how excited he was, had wrenched open the door of the first compartment and clambered aboard. By the time they reached it, he had the luggage in the rack and sprang down to the platform with a smile of triumph.
"Good work!" said Stewart. "I didn't think you had it in you!" and he dropped a generous tip into the waiting hand. "Come, my dear," and he helped his companion aboard. Hans slammed the door shut after them, touched his cap, and hurried away. "Well, that was luck!" Stewart added, and dropped to the seat beside his companion. "But look out for the deluge in another minute!"
She was looking out of the window at the excited mob sweeping along the platform.
"The crowd is not coming this way," she said, after a moment. "A line of police is holding it back. I think this carriage is intended for the officers."
Stewart groaned.
"Then we shall have to get out! Take my advice and don't wait to be asked twice!"
"Perhaps they will not need this corner. In any case, we will stay until they put us out. If you are wise, you will forget all the German you know and flourish your passport frequently. Germans are always impressed by a red seal!"
But, strangely enough, they were not disturbed. A number of officers approached the carriage, and, after a glance at its inmates, passed on to the other compartments. Stewart, putting his head out of the window, saw that the line of police were still keeping back the crowd.
"Really," he said, "this seems too good to be true. It looks as if we were going to have this compartment to ourselves."
He turned smilingly to glance at her, and the smile remained frozen on his lips. For her face was deathly pale, her eyes were staring, and she was pressing her hands tight against her heart.
"You're not ill?" he asked, genuinely startled.
"Only very tired," she answered, controlling her voice with evident difficulty. "I think I shall try to rest a little," and she settled herself more comfortably in her corner. "The journey from Spa quite exhausted me." Then with her lips she formed the words "Be careful!"
"All right," said Stewart. "Go to sleep if you can."
She gave him a warning glance from under half-closed lids, then laid her head back against the cushions and closed her eyes.
Stewart, after a last look along the platform, raised the window half-way to protect his companion from the draft, then dropped into the corner opposite her and got out a cigar and lighted it with studied carelessness—though he was disgusted to see that his hand was trembling. He was tingling all over with the sudden sense of danger—tingling as a soldier tingles as he awaits the command to charge.
But what danger could there be? And then he thrilled at a sudden thought. Was this compartment intended as a trap? Had they been guided to it and left alone here in the hope that, thrown off their guard, they would in some way incriminate themselves? Was there an ear glued to some hole in the partition—the ear of a spy crouching in the next compartment?
Stewart pulled his hat forward over his eyes as though to shield them from the light. Then he went carefully back over the sequence of events which had led them to this compartment. It was Hans who had brought them to it—and Hans was a spy. It was he who had selected it, who had stood at the door so that they would go no farther. It was he who had slammed the door.
Was the door locked? Stewart's hand itched to try the handle; but he did not dare. Someone was perhaps watching as well as listening. But that they should be permitted to enter a carriage reserved for officers—that, on a train so crowded, they should be undisturbed in the possession of a whole compartment—yes, it was proof enough!
The station-master's whistle echoed shrilly along the platform, and the train glided slowly away.
Darkness had come, and as the train threaded the silent environs of the town, Stewart wondered why the streets seemed so gloomy. Looking again, he understood. Only a few of the street lights were burning. Already the economies of war had begun.
The train entered a long tunnel, at whose entrance a file of soldiers with fixed bayonets stood on guard. At regular intervals, the light from the windows flashed upon an armed patrol. Farther on, a deep valley was spanned by a great viaduct, and here again there was a heavy guard. The valley widened, and suddenly as they swept around a curve, Stewart saw a broad plain covered with flaring lights. They were the lights of field-kitchens; and, looking at them, Stewart realized that a mighty army lay encamped here, ready to be hurled against the French frontier.
And then he remembered that this was not the French frontier, but the frontier of Belgium. Could the landlady of the Kölner Hof have been mistaken? To make sure, he got out his Baedeker and looked at the map. No; the French frontier lay away to the south. There was no way to reach it from this point save across Belgium. It was at Belgium, then, that the first blow was aimed—Belgium whose neutrality and independence had been guaranteed by all the Powers of Europe!
He put the book away and sat gazing thoughtfully out into the night. As far as the eye could reach gleamed the fires of the mighty bivouac. The army itself was invisible in the darkness, for the men had not thought it worth while to put up their shelter tents on so fine a night; but along the track, from time to time, passed a shadowy patrol; once, as the train rolled above a road, Stewart saw that it was packed with transport wagons.
Then, suddenly, the train groaned to a stop.
"The frontier!" said Stewart to himself, and glanced at his companion, but she, to all appearance, was sleeping peacefully. "We shall be delayed here," he thought, "for the troops to detrain," and he lowered the window and put out his head to watch them do it.
The train had stopped beside a platform, and Stewart was astonished at its length. It stretched away and away into the distance, seemingly without end. And it was empty, save for a few guards.
The doors behind him were thrown open and the officers sprang out and hurried forward. From the windows in front of him, Stewart could see curious heads projecting; but the forward coaches gave no sign of life. Not a door was opened; not a soldier appeared.
"Where are we? What has happened?" asked his companion's voice, and he turned to find her rubbing her eyes sleepily.
"We are at the frontier, I suppose," he answered. "No doubt we shall go on as soon as the troops detrain."
"I hope they will not be long."
"They haven't started yet, but of course—by George!" he added, in another tone, "they aren't getting out! The guards are driving the people out of the cars ahead of us!"
The tumult of voices raised in angry protest drew nearer. Stewart could see that the carriages were being cleared, and in no gentle manner. There was no pause for explanation or argument—just a terse order which, if not instantly obeyed, was followed by action. Stewart could not help smiling, for, in that Babel of tongues, he distinguished a lot of unexpurgated American!
"There's no use getting into a fight with them," he said, philosophically, as he turned back into the compartment and lifted down his suit-cases. "We might as well get out before we're put out," and he tried to open the door.
It was locked.
The certainty that they were trapped turned him a little giddy.
"Who the devil could have locked this door?" he demanded, shaking the handle savagely.
"Seat yourself, Tommy," his companion advised. "Do not excite yourself—and have your passport ready. Perhaps they will not put us off."
And then a face, crowned by the ubiquitous spiked helmet, appeared at the window.
"You will have to get out," said the man in German, and tried to open the door.
Stewart shook his head to show that he didn't understand, and produced his passport.
The man waved it impatiently away, and wrenched viciously at the door, purple with rage at finding it locked. Then he shouted savagely at someone farther up the platform.
"I have always been told that the Germans were a phlegmatic people," observed Stewart; "but as a matter of fact, they blow up quicker and harder than anybody I ever saw. Look at that fellow, now——"
But at that moment a guard came running up, produced a key, and opened the door.
"Come, get out!" said the man, with a gesture there was no mistaking, and Stewart, picking up his bags, stepped out upon the platform and helped his companion to alight.
"How long will we be detained here?" he asked in English; but the man, with a contemptuous shrug, motioned him to stand back.
Looking along the platform, Stewart saw approaching the head of an infantry column. In a moment, the soldiers were clambering into the coaches, with the same mathematical precision he had seen before. But there was something unfamiliar in their appearance; and, looking more closely, Stewart saw that their spiked helmets were covered with gray cloth, and that not a button or bit of gilt glittered anywhere on the gray-green field uniforms. Wonderful forethought, he told himself. By night these troops would be quite invisible; by day they would be merged indistinguishably with the brown soil of the fields, the gray trunks of trees, the green of hedges.
The train rolled slowly out of the station, and Stewart saw that on the track beyond there was another, also loaded with troops. In a moment, it started westward after the first; and beyond it a third train lay revealed.
Stewart, glancing at his companion, was startled by the whiteness of her face, the steely glitter of her eyes.
"It looks like a regular invasion," he said. "But let us find out what's going to happen to us. We can't stand here all night. Good heavens—what is that?"
From the air above them came the sudden savage whirr of a powerful engine, and, looking up, they saw a giant shape sweep across the sky. It was gone in an instant.
"A Zeppelin!" said Stewart, and felt within himself a thrill of wonder and exultation. Oh, this would be a great war! It would be like no other ever seen upon this earth. It would be fought in the air, as well as on the land; in the depths of the ocean, as well as on its surface. At last all theories were to be put to the supreme test!
"You will come with me," said the man in the helmet, and Stewart, with a nod, picked up his grips again before he remembered that he was supposed to be ignorant of German.
"Did you say there was another train?" he asked. "Shall we be able to get away?"
The man shook his head and led the way along the platform, without glancing to the right or left. As they passed the bare little station, they saw that it was jammed to the doors with men and women and children, mixed in an indiscriminate mass, and evidently most uncomfortable. But their guide led them past it without stopping, and Stewart breathed a sigh of relief. Anything would be better than to be thrust into that crowd!
Again he had cause to wonder at the length of that interminable platform; but at last, near its farther end, their guide stopped before a small, square structure, whose use Stewart could not even guess, and flung open the door.
"You will enter here," he said.
"But look here," Stewart protested, "we are American citizens. You have no right——"
The man signed to them to hurry. There was something in the gesture which stopped the words on Stewart's lips.
"Oh, damn the fool!" he growled, swallowing hard. "Come along, my dear; there's no use to argue," and, bending his head at the low door, he stepped inside.
In an instant, the door was slammed shut, and the snap of a lock told them that they were prisoners.
As Stewart set down his bags, still swearing softly to himself, he heard behind him the sound of a stifled sob.
"There! there!" he said. "We'll soon be all right!" and as he turned swiftly and reached out his arms to grope for her, it seemed to him that she walked right into them.
"Oh, oh!" she moaned, and pressed close against him. "What will they do to us? Why have they placed us here?" And then he felt her lips against his ear. "Be careful!" she whispered in the merest breath. "There is an open window!"
Stewart's heart was thrilling. What a woman! What an actress! Well, he would prove that he, too, could play a part.
"They will do nothing to us, dear," he answered, patting her shoulder. "They will not dare to harm us! Remember, we are Americans!"
"But—but why should they place us here?"
"I don't know—I suppose they have to be careful. I'll appeal to our ambassador in the morning. He'll soon bring them to their senses. So don't worry!"
"But it is so dark!" she complained. "And I am so tired. Can we not seat ourselves somewhere?"
"We can sit on our bags," said Stewart. "Wait!" In a moment he had found them and placed them one upon the other. "There you are. Now let us see what sort of a place we've come to."
He got out his match-box and struck a light. The first flare almost blinded him; then, holding the match above his head, he saw they were in a brick cubicle, about twenty feet square. There was a single small window, without glass but heavily barred. The place was empty, save for a pile of barrels against one end.
"It's a store-house of some kind," he said, and then he sniffed sharply. "Gasoline! I'd better not strike any more matches."
He sat down beside her and for some moments they were silent. Almost unconsciously, his arm found its way about her waist. She did not draw away.
"Do you suppose they will keep us here all night?" she asked, at last.
"Heaven knows! They seem capable of any folly!"
And then again he felt her lips against his ear.
"We must destroy your ticket," she breathed. "Can you find it in the dark?"
"I think so." He fumbled in an inside pocket and drew it out. "Here it is."
Her groping hand found his and took the ticket.
"Now talk to me," she said.
Stewart talked at random, wondering how she intended to destroy the ticket. Once he fancied he heard the sound of soft tearing; and once, when she spoke in answer to a question, her voice seemed strange and muffled.
"It is done," she whispered at last. "Place these in your pocket and continue talking."
Her groping hand touched his and he found himself grasping two minute objects whose nature he could not guess, until, feeling them carefully, he found them to be the small wire staples which had held the coupons of the ticket together. He slipped them into his waistcoat pocket; and then, as he began to tell her about the women from Philadelphia and the journey from Cologne, he was conscious that she was no longer beside him. But at the end of a moment she was back again.
"That girl was perfectly right," she said. "Women are very silly to try to travel about Europe without a man as escort. Consider how I should feel at this moment if I did not have you!"
But in spite of themselves, the conversation lagged; and they finally sat silent.
How strange a thing was chance, Stewart pondered. Here was he who, until to-day, had seen his life stretching before him ordered and prosaic, cast suddenly into the midst of strange adventure. Here was this girl, whom he had known for only a few hours and yet seemed to have known for years—whom he certainly knew better than he had ever known any other woman. There was Bloem—he had been cast into adventure, too. Was he outside somewhere, among all those thousands, gazing up at the stars and wondering at Fate? And the thousands themselves—the millions mustering at this moment into the armies of Europe—to what tragic adventure were they being hurried!
A quick step came along the platform and stopped at the door; there was the snap of a lock, and the door swung open.
"You will come out," said a voice in English.
Against the lights of the station, Stewart saw outlined the figure of a man in uniform. He rose wearily.
"Come, dear," he said, and helped her to her feet; "it seems we are to go somewhere else." Then he looked down at the heavy bags. "I can't carry those things all over creation," he said; "what's more, I won't."
"I will attend to that," said the stranger, and put a whistle to his lips and blew a shrill blast. Two men came running up. "You will take those bags," he ordered. "Follow me," he added to Stewart.
They followed him along the platform, crossed the track to another, and came at last to a great empty shed with a low table running along one side. The men placed the bags upon this table and withdrew.
"I shall have to search them," said the officer. "Are they locked?"
He stood in the glare of a lamp hanging from the rafters, and for the first time, Stewart saw his face. The man smiled at his start of surprise.
"I see you recognize me," he said. "Yes—I was in your compartment coming from Cologne. We will speak of that later. Are your bags locked?"
"No," said Stewart.
He watched with affected listlessness as the officer undid the straps and raised the lids. But his mind was very busy. Had he said anything during that ride from Cologne which he would now have reason to regret? Had he intimated that he was unmarried? He struggled to recall the conversation, sentence by sentence, but could remember nothing that was actually incriminating. And yet, in mentioning his intended stop at Aix-la-Chapelle, he had not added that he was to meet his wife there, and he had made a tentative arrangement to see Miss Field again in Brussels. The talk, in other words, had been carried on from the angle of a bachelor with no one to think of but himself, and not from that of a married man with a wife to consider.
It was certainly unfortunate that the man who had happened to overhear that conversation should be the one detailed here to examine his luggage. How well did he know English? Was he acute enough to catch the implications of the conversation, or would a disregard of one's wife seem natural to his Teutonic mind? Stewart glanced at him covertly; and then his attention was suddenly caught and held by the extreme care with which the man examined the contents of the bags.
He shook out each garment, put his hand in every pocket, examined the linings with his finger-tips, ripped open one where he detected some unusual thickness only to discover a strip of reënforcement, opened and read carefully every letter and paper, turned the Baedeker page by page to be sure that nothing lay between them. He paused over the satin shoes and stockings, but put them down finally without comment. At last the bags were empty, and, taking up his knife, he proceeded to rip open the linen linings and look under them. Then, with equal care, he returned each article to its place, examining it a second time with the same intent scrutiny.
All this took time, and long before it was over, Stewart and his companion had dropped upon a bench which ran along the wall opposite the table. Stewart was so weary that he began to feel that nothing mattered very much, and he could see that the girl also was deadly tired. But at last the search was finished and the bags closed and strapped.
"I should like to see the small bag which Madame carries on her arm," said the officer, and, without a word, the girl held it out to him.
He examined its contents with a minuteness almost microscopic. Nothing was too small, too unimportant, to escape the closest attention. Stewart, marveling at this exhibition of German thoroughness, watched him through half-closed eyes, his heart beating a little faster. Would he find some clew, some evidence of treachery?
There were some handkerchiefs in the bag, and some small toilet articles; a cake of soap in a case, a box of powder, a small purse containing some gold and silver, a postcard, two or three letters, and some trivial odds and ends such as every woman carries about with her. The searcher unfolded each of the handkerchiefs and held it against the light, he cut the cake of soap into minute fragments; he emptied the box of powder and ran an inquiring finger through its contents; he turned out the purse and looked at every coin it contained; then he sat down and read slowly and gravely the postcard and each of the letters and examined their postmarks, and finally he took one of the closely-written sheets, mounted on his chair, and held the sheet close against the chimney of the lamp until it was smoking with the heat, examining it with minute attention as though he rather expected to make some interesting discovery. As a finish to his researches, he ripped open the lining of the bag and turned it inside out.
"Where did you buy this bag, madame?" he asked.
"In Paris, a month ago."
"These handkerchiefs are also French."
"Certainly. French handkerchiefs are the best in the world."
He compressed his lips and looked at her.
"And that is a French hat," he went on.
"Good heavens!" cried the girl. "One would think I was passing the customs at New York. Certainly it is French. So is my gown—so are my stockings—so is my underwear. For what else does an American woman come abroad?"