Full Text

Produced by Al Haines.

[Illustration: "'Anywhere alone with you in the world would be a

sufficient purpose in life for me'"]

_*The*_*

GIRL PHILIPPA*

BY

*ROBERT W. CHAMBERS*

ILLUSTRATED BY

FRANK CRAIG

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

NEW YORK LONDON

1919

COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY

ROBERT W. CHAMBERS

1915, 1916, BY THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE COMPANY

Printed in the United States of America

TO MY SON

BOBBY

*BOB AT SIXTEEN*

You can tell a better tale than I;

Trap and wing you shoot a better score;

You can cast a surer, lighter fly,

Catch as can, you'd put me on the floor;

Should I hoist a sail beneath the sky

Yours the race, away and back to shore.

You have mastered all my woodland lore,

In the saddle you can give me spades;

You have slain your first and mighty boar

In the classic Croyden Forest shades;

You have heard the Northern rivers roar,

You have seen the Southern Everglades.

You have creeled your Highland yellow trout

Where the Scottish moorlands call us back;

You have left me puzzled and in doubt

Over tropic specimens I lack--

Sphinxes that I know not, huge and stout;

Butterflies, un-named, in blue and black.

Well, we've had a jolly run, my son,

Through a sunny world has lain our trail

Trodden side by side with rod and gun

Under azure skies where white clouds sail;

--Send our journey is not nearly done!

Send the light has not begun to fail.

_Envoi_

Yet, that day you tread the trail alone,

With no slower comrade to escort

On the path of spring with blossoms sown,

You may deem me not so bad a sort,

Smile and think, as one who would condone,

"He was sure a perfectly good sport."

R. W. C.

Broadalbin; 1916.

*DOG-DAYS (1914)*

The mad dog of Europe

Yelped in the dog-days' heat;

To his sick legs he staggered up

Swaying on twitching feet;

Snarled when he saw the offered cup,

And started down the street.

All hell has set his brain aflame;

All Europe shrieks with dread;

All mothers call on Mary's name,

Praying by shrine and bed,

"For Jesus' sake!"--Yet all the same

Each sees her son lie dead.

"On Guard!" the Western bugles blow;

"Boom!" from the Western main;

The Brabant flail has struck its blow;

The mad dog howls with pain

But lurches on, uncertain, slow,

Growling amid his slain.

They beat and kick his dusty hide,

He bleeds from every vein;

On his red trail the Cossacks ride

Across the reeking plain

While gun-shots rip his bloody sides

From Courland to Champagne.

Under the weary moons and suns

With phantom eyes aglow,

Dog-trotting still the spectre runs

Yelping at every blow

'Til through its ribs the flashing guns

And stars begin to show.

The moon shines through its riven wrack;

On the bleached skull the suns

Have baked the crusted blood all black,

But still the spectre runs,

Jogging along its hell-ward track

Lined with the tombs of Huns.

Back to the grave from whence it came

To foul the world with red;

Back to its bed of ancient shame

In the Hunnish tomb it fled

Where God's own name is but a name

And souls that lived lie dead.

*THE GIRL PHILIPPA*

*FOREWORD*

On the twenty-eighth of June, 1914, the Archduke Francis Ferdinand, heir

to the Austrian throne, was murdered by a Serb in Serajevo, the capital

of Bosnia. The murder was the most momentous crime ever committed in

the world, for it altered the geography and the political and social

history of that planet, and changed the entire face of the civilized and

uncivilized globe. Generations unborn were to feel the consequences of

that murder.

Incidentally, it vitally affected the life and career of the girl

Philippa.

Before the press of the United States received the news, Sir Cecil

Spring-Rice, the British Ambassador, had been notified of the tragedy,

and a few minutes later he was in secret conference with the President.

The British Ambassador knew what he wanted, which was more than the

administration knew, and at this hasty and secret conference he bluntly

informed the President that, in his opinion, war before midsummer had

now become inevitable; that there was every probability of England being

drawn into a world-wide conflict; and that, therefore, an immediate

decision was necessary concerning certain pending negotiations.

The truth of this became apparent to the President. The State

Department's ominous information concerning a certain Asiatic Empire,

the amazing knowledge in regard to the secret military and political

activities of Germany in the United States, the crass stupidity of a

Congress which was no better than an uneducated nation deserved, the

intellectual tatterdemalions in whose care certain vitally important

departments had been confided--a momentary vision of what all this might

signify flickered fitfully in the presidential brain.

And, before Sir Cecil left, it was understood that certain secret

negotiations should be immediately resumed and concluded as soon as

possible--among other matters the question of the Harkness shell.

About the middle of July the two governments had arrived at an

understanding concerning the Harkness shell. The basis of this

transaction involved the following principles, proposed and mutually

accepted:

1st. The Government of the United States agreed to disclose to the

British Government, and to no other government, the secret of the

Harkness shell, known to ordnance experts as "the candle shell."

2nd. The British Government agreed to disclose to the United States

Government, and to no other government, the secrets of its new submarine

seaplane, known as "the flying fish," the inventor of which was one

Pillsbury, a Yankee, who had offered it in vain to his own country

before selling it to England.

3rd. Both Governments solemnly engaged not to employ either of these

devices against each other in the event of war.

4th. The British Government further pledged itself to restrain from

violence a certain warlike and Asiatic nation until the Government of

the United States could discover some method of placating that nation.

But other and even more important negotiations, based upon the principle

that the United States should insure its people and its wealth by

maintaining an army and a navy commensurate with its population, its

importance, and its international obligations, fell through owing to

presidential indifference, congressional ignorance, the historic

imbecility of a political party, and the smug vanity of a vast and

half-educated nation, among whose employees were numbered several of the

most perfect demagogues that the purlieus of politics had ever

germinated.

This, then, was the condition of affairs in the United States when, on

the nineteenth of July, the British Ambassador was informed that through

the treachery of certain employees the plans and formula for the

Harkness shell had been abstracted.

But the British Embassy had learned of this catastrophe through certain

occult channels even before it was reported to the United States

Government; and five hours after the information had reached Sir Cecil

Spring-Rice, two young men stepped aboard the Antwerp liner _Zeeduyne_ a

few seconds before the gangway was pulled up.

With the first turn of the steamer's screws the wheel of fate also began

to revolve, spinning out the web of destiny so swiftly that already its

meshes had fallen over an obscure little town thousands of miles

distant, and its net already held a victim so obscure that few except

the French Government had ever heard of the girl Philippa.

The two young men who had come aboard at the last moment were

nice-looking young men. They carried tennis bats, among other frivolous

hand luggage, and it was rumored very quickly on board that they were

two celebrated New Zealand tennis champions on their way to the

international tournament at Ostend.

It was the Captain who first seemed interested in the rumor and who

appeared to know all about the famous New Zealand players, Halkett and

Gray.

And this was odd, because when Halkett and Gray came aboard their names

did not figure on the passenger list, no stateroom had been engaged for

them, and the Captain of the _Zeeduyne_ had never before laid eyes on

either of them.

But he may have heard of them, for that morning the British Embassy had

called him on the telephone, had talked for twenty minutes to him, and

had arranged for him to hold his steamer if necessary. But it had been

necessary for the Captain to hold the _Zeeduyne_ for ten minutes only.

The voyage of the _Zeeduyne_ was calm, agreeable, and superficially

uneventful. There was much dancing aboard. Halkett and Gray danced

well. They had come aboard knowing nobody; in a day or two they seemed

to have met everybody. Which urbanity is not at all characteristic of

Englishmen. New Zealanders, it seemed, were quite different.

The ocean being on its best behavior nearly everybody appeared

triumphantly on deck. There were, however, several passengers who

maintained exclusiveness in their staterooms; and among these were two

German gentlemen who preferred the stateroom they shared in common.

However, they took the air sometimes, and always rather late at night.

Evidently they were commercial gentlemen, for they sent several wireless

messages to Cologne during the voyage, using a code of their own which

seemed to concern perfumes and cosmetics and, in particular, a toilet

soap known as Calypso soap.

In return they received several wireless messages, also apparently in

some commercial code, and all mentioning perfumes and Calypso soap.

And a copy of every code message which they dispatched or received was

sent to the Captain of the _Zeeduyne_, and that affable and

weather-reddened Belgian always handed these copies to the tennis

champions of New Zealand, who spent considerable time poring over them

in the only spot on the steamer which was absolutely safe from

intrusion--the Captain's private quarters.

Then, in their turn, as the steamer drew nearer to the Belgian coast,

they sent a number of wireless messages in private code. Some of these

messages were directed to the British Consul at Maastricht, some to the

British Ambassador at Brussels, some to private individuals in Antwerp.

But these details did not interfere with the young men's social

activities on board, or with their popularity. Wherever Halkett and

Gray walked, they walked surrounded by maidens and pursued by approving

glances of relatives and parents.

But the two German gentlemen who kept their cabin by day and prowled

sometimes by night were like Mr. Kipling's cat; when they walked they

walked by their wild lone. Only the chaste moon was supposed to notice

them. But always either Halkett or Gray was watching them, sometimes

dressed in the jaunty uniform of a deck steward, or in the clothing of a

common sailor, or in the gorgeous raiment of a ship's officer. The two

Germans never noticed them as they walked in the dark by their wild

lone.

And always while one of the young men watched on deck, the other

ransacked the stateroom and luggage of the gentlemen from Germany--but

ransacked in vain.

As the _Zeeduyne_ steamed into the Scheldt, several thousand miles away,

in the city of Washington, the French Ambassador telegraphed in cipher

to his Government that the secret plans and formula for the Harkness

shell, which had been acquired by England from the United States

Government, had been stolen on the eve of delivery to the British

Ambassador; that French secret agents were to inspect the arrival of all

Dutch, Belgian, and German steamers; that all agents in the French

service resident or stationed near the north or northeastern frontier of

France were to watch the arrival of all strangers from Holland or

Belgium, and, if possible, follow and observe any individual who might

be likely to have been involved in such a robbery.

Immediately, from the Military Intelligence Department in Paris orders

were telegraphed and letters sent to thousands of individuals of every

description and station in life, to be on the alert.

Among others who received such letters was a denationalized individual

named Wildresse, who kept a cabaret in the little town of Ausone.

The cabaret was called the Cafe de Biribi. Wildresse insisted that the

name had been his own choice. But it was at the request of the

Government that his cabaret bore the ominous title as an ever-present

reminder to Wildresse that his personal liberty and the liberty of his

worthless son and heir depended on his good behavior and his alacrity in

furnishing the French Government with whatever information it demanded.

The letter sent to Monsieur Wildresse read as follows:

MONSIEUR:

Undescribed individuals carrying important document stolen from the

United States Government may appear in your vicinity.

Observe diligently, but with discretion, the arrival of any strangers at

your cafe. If suspicions warrant, lay a complaint before local police

authorities. Use every caution. The fugitives probably are German, but

may be American. Inform the girl Philippa of what is required. And

remember that Biribi is preferable to Noumea.

When Wildresse received this letter he went into the bedroom of the girl

Philippa, who was standing before her looking glass busily rouging her

cheeks and painting her lips. She wore no corset, her immature figure

requiring none.

"If they come our way, Philippa," growled Wildresse, "play the baby--do

you hear? Eyes wide and artless, virginal candor alternating with

indifference. In other words, be yourself."

"That is not difficult," said the girl Philippa, powdering her nose.

"When I lose my innocence then it will mean real acting."

Wildresse glared at her out of his little black eyes.

"_When_ you lose it, eh?" he repeated. "Well, when you do, I'll break

your neck. Do you understand that?"

The girl continued to powder her nose.

"Who would marry me?" she remarked indifferently. "Also, now it is too

late for me to become a religieuse like--"

"You'll carry on the business!" he growled. "That's what you'll do--with

Jacques, when the Sbirs de Biribi let him loose. As for marrying, you

can think it over when you are thirty. You'll have a dot by that time,

if the damned Government lets me alone. And a woman with a dot need not

worry about marriage."

The girl was now busy with her beautiful chestnut hair; Wildresse's

pock-marked features softened.

"_Allons_," he said in his harsh voice, "lilies grow prettiest on

dunghills. Also, you are like me--serious, not silly. I have no fears.

Besides, you are where I have my eye on you."

"If I am what I am it is because I prefer it, not on account of your

eye," she said listlessly.

"Is that so!" he roared. "All the same, continue to prefer virtue and

good conduct, and I'll continue to use my two eyes, nom de Dieu! And if

any strangers who look like Germans come into the cafe--any strangers at

all, no matter what they look like--keep your eyes on them, do you

hear?"

"I hear," said the girl Philippa.

The web of fate had settled over her at last.

About that time the steamer _Zeeduyne_ was docking at Antwerp.

Two hours later two German gentlemen in a hurry registered at the Hotel

St. Antoine in the Place Verte, and were informed that they were

expected immediately in room 23.

A page conducted them to the corridor and indicated the room; they

thanked him and sent him back for their luggage which he had, it seemed,

neglected to bring from the lobby.

Then both German gentlemen went to the door of room 23, knocked, and

were admitted; and the door was rather violently closed and locked.

The next instant there came a crash, a heavy fall, dull sounds of feet

scuffling behind the locked door, a series of jarring, creaking noises,

then silence.

A chambermaid came into the corridor to listen, but the silence was

profound, and presently she went away.

When the boy came back with the hand luggage and knocked at 23, Halkett

opened the door a little way and, tipping the lad with a five-franc

piece, bade him leave the luggage outside the door for the present.

Later, Gray cautiously opened the door and drew in the luggage.

Ten minutes later both young men came leisurely out of the room, locking

the door on the outside. They each carried hand luggage. Halkett

lighted a cigarette.

At the desk Gray requested that the gentlemen in No. 23 should not be

disturbed that night, as they were lying down and in need of repose.

Which was true.

Then both young men departed in a cab. At the railroad station,

however, an unusually generous stranger offered Gray a motor cycle for

nothing. So he strapped his bag to it, nodded a smiling adieu to

Halkett, and departed.

Halkett bought a ticket to Maastricht, Holland, which he had no idea of

using, and presently came out of the station and walked eastward rather

rapidly. A man who also had bought a ticket for Maastricht rose from

his seat in the waiting room and walked stealthily after him, making a

signal to another man.

This second man immediately stepped into a station telephone booth and

called up room 23 at the Hotel St. Antoine, where two German gentlemen,

badly battered, were now conferring with a third German gentleman who

had paid no attention to instructions from the hotel office but had gone

to room 23, knocked until out of patience, and had then summoned the

_maitre d'hotel_, who unlocked the door with a master-key.

Which operation revealed two Teutons flat on their backs, very carefully

tied up with rope and artistically gagged.

This unbattered gentleman now conversed over the telephone with the man

at the railroad station.

A few moments later he and the two battered ones left the hotel hastily

in a taxicab, joined the man at the railroad station, and drove rapidly

eastward.

And before forty-eight hours had elapsed, each one of these four men

operating in pairs, had attempted to kill the young man named Halkett.

Twice he got away. The third time two of them succeeded in locating him

in the little town of Diekirch, a town which Halkett was becoming more

and more anxious to leave, as he finally began to realize what a

hornet's nest he and his friend Gray had succeeded in stirring up.

And all the while the invisible net of destiny in which he now found

himself entangled was every minute enmeshing in its widening spread new

people whose fate was to be linked with his, and who had never even

heard of him. Among them was the girl Philippa.

*PROLOGUE*

A narrow-gauge railroad track runs through the woods from Diekirch,

connecting the two main lines; and on the deserted wooden platform

beside this track stood Halkett, his suitcase in one hand, the other

hand in his side pocket, awaiting the shuttle train with an impatience

born of deepest anxiety.

The young man's anxiety was presently justified, for, as he sauntered to

and fro, uneasily scanning the track and the unbroken woods around him,

always keeping his right hand in his coat pocket, two men crept out from

behind separate trees in the forest directly behind the platform, and he

turned around only in time to obtain a foreshortened and disquieting

view of the muzzle of a revolver.

"Hands up--" began the man behind the weapon; but as he was in the very

act of saying it, a jet of ammonia entered his mouth through the second

button of Halkett's waistcoat, and he reeled backward off the platform,

his revolver exploding toward the sky, and fell into the grass, jerking

and kicking about like an unhealthy cat in a spasm.

Already Halkett and the other man had clinched; the former raining blows

on the latter's Teutonic countenance, which proceeding so dazed,

diverted, and bewildered him that he could not seem to find the revolver

bulging in his side pocket.

It was an automatic, and Halkett finally got hold of it and hurled it

into the woods.

Then he continued the terrible beating which he was administering.

"Get out!" he said in German to the battered man, still battering him.

"Get out, or I'll kill you!"

He hit him another cracking blow, turned and wrested the other pistol

from the writhing man on the grass, whirled around, and went at the

battered one again.

"I've had enough of this!" he breathed, heavily. "I tell you I'll kill

you if you bother me again! I could do it now--but it's too much like

murder if you're not in uniform!"

The man on the grass had managed to evade suffocation; he got up now and

staggered off toward the woods, and Halkett drove his companion after

him at the point of his own revolver.

"Keep clear of me!" he said. "If you do any more telephoning or

telegraphing it will end in murder. I've had just about enough, and if

any more of your friends continue to push this matter after I enter

France, just as surely as I warn you now, I'll defend my own life by

taking theirs. You can telephone that to them if you want to!"

As he stood on the edge of the wooden platform, revolver lifted, facing

the woods where his two assailants had already disappeared, the toy-like

whistle of an approaching train broke the hot, July stillness.

Before it stopped, he hurled the remaining revolver into the woods

across the track, then, as the train drew up and a guard descended to

open a compartment door for him, he cast a last keen glance at the

forest behind him.

Nothing stirred there, not even a leaf.

But before the train had been under way five minutes a bullet shattered

the glass of the window beside which he had been seated; and he spent

the remainder of the journey flat on his back smoking cigarettes and

wondering whether he was going to win through to the French frontier, to

Paris, to Calais, to London, or whether they'd get him at last and, what

was of infinitely greater importance, a long, thin envelope which he

carried stitched inside his undershirt.

That was really what mattered, not what might become of a stray

Englishman. He knew it; he realized it without any illusion whatever.

It was the contents of this envelope that mattered, not his life.

Yet, so far, he had managed to avoid taking life in defense of his

envelope. In fact, he traveled unarmed. Now, if matters continued

during his journey through France as they had begun and continued while

he was crossing Holland and the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg, he would be

obliged to take life or lose his own.

And yet, if he did kill somebody, that meant arrest and investigation by

the police of France. And such an investigation might be fatal to the

success of his undertaking--quite as fatal, in fact, as though he

himself were killed.

The main thing was to get that envelope and its contents to London.

His instructions were not to mail it, but to take it in person, or to

send it, if necessary, by another messenger through other channels.

One thing became more and more evident to him; the time had now arrived

when certain people unknown to him by sight had decided to kill him as

the only way out of the affair.

Would they actually go so far as to kill him in France, with the chance

of the French police seizing that envelope before they could seize it

and clear out with it to Berlin? Would they hazard the risk of France

obtaining cognizance of a matter which so vitally concerned Germany,

rather than permit that information to reach England?

Halkett lay on his back and smoked and did not know.

But he was slowly coming to the conclusion that one thing was now

imperative: the envelope must not be found upon his person if he were

killed.

But what on earth to do with it until it could be safely transferred to

the proper person he had not the slightest idea.

That evening, as he changed trains at the frontier, in the lamp-lit

dimness of the station platform he was fired at twice, and not hit.

A loud outcry naturally ensued; a stampede of passengers who tried to

escape, a rush of others who desired to see what had happened--much

hubbub and confusion, much shouting in several languages.

But nobody could be found who had fired two shots from a revolver, and

nobody admitted that they had been shot at.

And so, as nobody had been hit, the gendarmes, guards, and railway

officials were in a quandary.

And the train rolled out of the station with Halkett aboard, a prey to

deepest anxiety concerning his long thin envelope.

*CHAPTER I*

Somebody at Warner's elbow spoke to him in French. He turned his head

leisurely: a well-dressed young fellow, evidently an Englishman, was

striving to maintain a place beside him in the noisy, market day crowd.

"Pardon, Monsieur, are you English?"

"American," replied Warner briefly, and without enthusiasm.

"My name is Halkett," said the other, with a quick smile. "I'm English,

and I'm in trouble. Could you spare me a moment?"

To Warner the man did not look the typical British dead-beat, nor had he

any of the earmarks and mannerisms of the Continental beach-comber. Yet

he was, probably, some species or other of that wearisome and itinerant

genus.

"I'm listening," said the young American resignedly. "Continue your

story."

"There's such a row going on here--couldn't we find a quieter place?"

"I can hear you perfectly well, I tell you!"

Halkett said:

"If I try to talk to you here I'll be overheard, and that won't do. I'm

very sorry to inconvenience you, but really I'm in a fix. What a noise

these people are making! Do you mind coming somewhere else?"

"Say what you desire to say here," returned Warner bluntly. "And

perhaps it might save time if you begin with the last chapter; I think I

can guess the rest of the story."

The features of the American expressed boredom to the point of

unfriendly indifference. The Englishman looked at him, perplexed for a

moment, then his sun-bronzed face lighted up with another quick smile.

"You're quite mistaken," he said. "I don't expect the classic

remittance from England, and I don't require the celebrated twenty-franc

loan until it arrives. You take me for that sort, I see, but I'm not.

I don't need money. May I tell you what I do need--rather desperately?"

"Yes, if you choose."

"I need a friend."

"Money is easier to pick up," remarked Warner drily.

"I know that. May I ask my favor of you all the same?"

"Go ahead."

"Thanks, I will. But can't we get out of this crowd? What is going on

in this town anyway?"

"Market day. It's like this once a month in Ausone. Otherwise the town

is as dead as any other French provincial town."

Shoulder to shoulder they threaded their way through the crowded market

square, amid the clatter of sabots, the lowing of cattle, the incessant

bleating of sheep. Ducks quacked from crates in wagons, geese craned

white necks and hissed above the heads of the moving throngs; hogs

squealed and grunted; fowls hanging by their legs from the red fists of

sturdy peasant women squawked and flapped.

Cheap-Jack shows of all sorts encumbered the square and adjacent streets

and alleys--gingerbread booths, shooting ranges, photograph galleries,

moving-picture shows, theaters for ten sous. Through the lowing,

bleating, and cockcrowing, the drumming and squeaking of Punch and Judy,

and the brassy dissonance of half a dozen bands, mournful and incessant

strains from several merry-go-rounds continued audible.

But the steady clatter of sabots on stony pavements, and the ceaseless

undertone of voices, swelling, subsiding, dominated the uproar,

softening the complaint of kine and feathered fowl to a softly cheerful

harmony suggestive of summer breezes and green fields.

On the dusty Boulevard d'Athos--the typical solitary promenade of such

provincial towns--there were, as usual, very few people--the inevitable

nurses here and there, wheeling prams; a discouraged, red-trousered and

sou-less soldier or two sprawling on benches under the chestnut trees;

rarely a passing pedestrian, more often a prowling dog.

At the head of the Boulevard d'Athos, where the rue d'Auros crosses,

Warner halted under the shade of the chestnuts, for the July sun was

very hot. His unconvinced grey eyes now rested inquiringly on the young

Englishman who had called himself Halkett. He said:

"What species of trouble are you in?"

Halkett shook his head.

"I can't tell you what the trouble is; I may only ask you to help me a

bit--" The quick smile characteristic of him glimmered in his eyes

again--a winning smile, hinting of latent recklessness. "I have my

nerve with me, you see--as you Americans have it," he added. "You're

thinking something of that sort, I fancy."

Warner smiled too, rather faintly, but remained silent.

"This is what I want you to do," continued Halkett. "I've a long thin

envelope in my pocket. I'd like to have you take it from me and slip it

into your breast pocket and then button your coat. Is that too much to

ask?"

"_What!_"

"That's all I want you to do. Then if you wouldn't mind giving me your

name and address? And that is really all I ask."

Said the American, amused and surprised:

"That airy request of yours requires a trifle more explanation than you

seem inclined to offer."

"I know it does. I can't offer it. Only--you won't get into trouble if

you keep that envelope buttoned tightly under your coat until I come for

it again."

"But I'm not going to do that!"

"Why?"

"Why the devil should I? I don't propose to wander about France

carrying papers concerning which I know nothing--to oblige a young man

about whom I know even less."

"I quite see that," admitted Halkett seriously. "I shouldn't feel

inclined to do such a thing either."

"Can't you tell me what is the nature of these papers?--Or

something--some explanation----"

"I'm sorry."

"And why do you propose to trust me with them?" continued Warner,

curiously. "How do you know I am honest? How do you know I won't

examine your packet as soon as you clear out?"

Halkett looked up with his quick and winning smile:

"I'll take that risk."

"Why? You don't know me."

"I had a good look at you in the market square before I spoke to you."

"Oh. You think you are a psychologist?"

"Of sorts. It's a part of my business in life."

"Suppose," said Warner, smiling, "you explain a little more clearly to

me exactly what is your actual business in life."

"Very glad to. I write."

"Books?"

"No; just--stories."

"Fiction?"

"As one might say, facts rather than fiction."

"You are a realist?" suggested Warner with slight irony.

"I try to be. But do you know, there is more romance in realism than in

fairy tales?"

Warner, considerably diverted, nodded:

"I know. You belong to the modern school, I take it."

"Very modern. So modern, in fact, that my work concerns tomorrow rather

than today."

Warner nodded again:

"I see. You are a futurist--opportunist. There are a lot of clever men

working on those lines in England.... Still--" he glanced amusedly at

Halkett "--that scarcely explains your rather unusual request. Why

should I take charge of an envelope for _you_?"

"My dear fellow, I can't answer that.... Still--I may say this much;

I'm hard put to it--rather bewildered--had a rotten time of it in the

Grand Duchy and in Belgium--so to speak--"

"What do you mean by a rotten time?"

"Rows."

"I don't understand. You'll have to be more explicit."

"Well--it had to do with this envelope I carry. Some chaps of sorts

wanted to get it away from me. Do you see? ... I had a lively time, and

I rather expect to have another before I get home--if I ever get there."

Warner looked at him out of clear, sophisticated eyes:

"See here, my ingenuous British friend," he said, "play square with me,

if you play at all."

"I shan't play otherwise."

"Very well, then; why are you afraid to carry that envelope?"

"Because," said Halkett, coolly, "if I'm knocked on the head and that

envelope is found in my clothing and is stolen, the loss of my life

would be the lesser loss to my friends."

"Is anybody trying to _kill_ you?"

Halkett shrugged his shoulders; but there seemed to be neither swagger

nor bravado in his careless gesture of assent. He said:

"Listen; here's my case in brief. I saw you in the crowd yonder, and I

made up my mind concerning you. I have to think quickly sometimes; I

took a good look at you and--" He waved one hand. "You look like a

soldier. I don't know whether you are or not. But I am ready to trust

you. That's all."

"Do you mean to say that you are in any real personal danger?"

"Yes. But that doesn't count. I can look out for myself. What worries

me is this envelope. Couldn't you take charge of it? I'd be very

grateful."

"How long do you expect me to carry it about?"

"I don't know. I don't know whether anything is likely to happen to me

today in this town--or tomorrow on the train--or in Paris--I have no

means of knowing. I merely want to get to Paris, if I can, and send a

friend back here for that envelope."

"I thought you were to return for it yourself."

"Maybe. Maybe I'll send you a letter by a friend--just a line for him

to give you, saying it's all right."

"Mr. Halkett, you have rather a disconcerting way of expressing

unlimited confidence in me--"

"Yes, I trust you."

"But _why_?"

"You look right."

"That's no reason!"

"My dear chap, I'm in a corner, and instinct rules, not reason! You

see, I--I'm rather afraid they may get me before I can clear out."

"_Who'll_ get you?" demanded Warner impatiently.

"That's the worst of it; I don't know these fellows by sight. The same

chaps never try it on twice."

Warner said quietly:

"What is this very dramatic mess you're in? Can't you give me a hint?"

"I'm sorry."

"Shall I give _you_ a hint?"

"If you like."

"Are the _police_ after you?"

"No."

"You're sure of that?"

"Quite sure. I don't blame you for asking. It looks that way. But it

isn't."

"But you are being followed across Europe by people who want this

envelope of yours?"

"Oh, yes."

"You expect personal violence from them?"

Halkett nodded and gazed absently down the almost deserted boulevard.

"Then why don't you appeal to the police--if your conscience is clear?"

demanded Warner bluntly.

Halkett's quick smile broke out.

"My dear chap," he said, "I'd do so if I were in England. I can't, as

matters stand. The French police are no use to me."

"Why don't you go to your consulate?"

"I did. The Consul is away on his vacation. And I didn't like the

looks of the vice-consul."

"What?"

"No. I didn't like his name, either."

"What do you mean?"

"His name is Schmidt. I--didn't care for it."

Warner laughed, and Halkett looked up quickly, smiling.

"I'm queer. I admit it. But you ought to have come to some conclusion

concerning me by this time. Do you think me a rotter, or a criminal, or

a lunatic, or a fugitive from justice? Or will you chance it that I'm

all right, and will you stand by me?"

Warner laughed again:

"I'll take a chance on you," he said. "Give me your envelope, you

amazing Britisher!"

*CHAPTER II*

Halkett cast a rapid glance around him; apparently he saw nothing to

disturb him. Then he whipped out from his pocket a long, very thin

envelope and passed it to Warner, who immediately slipped it into the

breast pocket of his coat.

"That's very decent of you," said Halkett in a low voice. His

attractive face had grown serious and a trifle pale. "I shan't forget

this," he said.

Warner laughed.

"You're a very convincing Englishman," he said. "I can't believe you're

not all right."

"I'm right enough. But you are _all_ white. What is your name?"

"I had better write it out for you."

"No. If things go wrong with me, I don't want your name and address

discovered in my pockets. Tell it to me; I'll remember."

Warner looked at him rather gravely for a moment, then:

"James Warner is my name. I'm a painter. My present address is La

Peche d'Or at Sais."

"By any chance," asked Halkett, "are you the military painter, James

Warner, whose pictures we know very well in England?"

"I don't know how well my pictures are known in England. I usually

paint military subjects."

"I _knew_ you were right!" exclaimed Halkett. "Any man who paints the

way you paint _must_ be right! Fancy my actually knowing the man who did

'Lights Out' and 'The Last Salute'!"

Warner laughed, coloring a little.

"Did you really like those pictures?"

"Everybody liked them. I fancy every officer in our army owns a colored

print of one or more of your pictures. And to think I should run across

you in this God-forsaken French town! And to think it should be _you_

who is willing to stand by me at this pinch! Well--I judged you

rightly, you see."

Warner smiled, then his features altered.

"Listen, Halkett," he said, dropping instinctively the last trace of

formality with a man who, honest or otherwise, was plainly of his own

caste. "I have tried to size you up and I can't. You say you are a

writer, but you look to me more like a soldier. Anyway, I've concluded

that you're straight. And, that being my conviction, can't I do more

for you than carry an envelope about for you?"

"That's very decent of you, Warner. No, thanks, there is nothing else

you could do."

"I thought you said you are likely to get into a row?"

"I am. But I don't know when or where. Besides, I wouldn't drag you

into anything like that."

"Where are you stopping in Ausone?"

"At the Boule d'Argent. I got in only an hour before I met you."

"Do you still believe you are being followed?"

"I have been followed so far. Maybe I've lost them. I hope so."

Warner said:

"I came into town to buy canvases and colors. That's how I happen to be

in Ausone. It's only an hour's drive to Sais. Why don't you come back

with me? Sais is a pretty hamlet. Few people have ever heard of it.

The Golden Peach is an excellent inn. Why don't you run down and lie

snug for a while? It's the last place on earth anybody would think of

looking for a man who's done--what I suppose _you've_ done."

Halkett, who had been listening with a detached smile, jerked his head

around and looked at Warner.

"What do you suppose I've done?" he asked coolly.

"I think you're a British officer who has been abroad after military

information--and that you've got it--in this envelope."

Halkett's expressionless face and fixed eyes did not alter. But he said

quietly:

"You are about the only American in France who might have been likely to

think that. Isn't it the devil's own luck that I should pick _you_ for

my friend in need?"

Warner shrugged:

"You need not answer that implied question of mine, Halkett. My theory

concerning you suits me. Anyway, I believe you _are_ in trouble. And I

think you'd better come back to Sais with me."

"Thinking what you think, do you still mean to stand by me?"

"Certainly. I don't _know_ what's in your damned envelope, do I? Very

well; I don't wish to know. Shall we stroll back to the Boule

d'Argent?"

"Right-o! What a devilish decent chap you are, Warner!"

"Oh, no; I'm a gambler by disposition. This business amuses me!"

"Are you stopping at the Boule d'Argent, too?" asked Halkett after a

moment.

"I lunched there and left my stack of _toiles_ and my sack of colors

there. Also, I have a dogcart and a horse in the stables."

They turned away together, side by side, crossed the boulevard,

traversed the deserted square in front of the beautiful old church of

Sainte Cassilda, and entered the stony rue d'Auros, which led directly

into the market square.

The ancient town of Ausone certainly seemed to be very much _en fete_,

and the rue d'Auros--the main business thoroughfare--was crowded with

townspeople, country folk, and soldiers on leave, clustering not only

all over the sidewalks, but in the middle of the streets and squares,

filling the terraces of the cafes and the courts of the two hotels, the

Boule d'Argent and the Hotel des Voyageurs.

Sunlight filtered through the double rank of chestnut trees in full

leaf; the shade was even denser and cooler by the stone bridge where,

between stone walls, the little stony river flowed, crystal clear. Here

women and young girls, in holiday attire, sat on the benches, knitting

or chatting with their friends; children played along the stone

embankment, where beds of brilliant flowers bloomed; the red trousers of

soldiers and the glittering brass helmets of firemen added a gayety to

the color and movement.

"They're a jolly people, these French," remarked Halkett.

"They're very agreeable to live among."

"You've lived in France for some time?"

"Yes," said Warner. "My headquarters are in Paris, but every summer I

take a class of American art students--girls--to Sais for outdoor

instruction. I've half a dozen there now, plugging away at _Plein Air_."

"Do you like to teach?"

"Well, not particularly. It interferes with my own work. But I have to

do it. Painting pictures doesn't keep the kettle boiling."

"I see."

"I don't really mind it. Sais is a charming place; I've known it for

years. Besides, a friend of mine lives there--an American woman, Madame

de Moidrey. Her sister, Miss Brooks, is one of the young girls in my

class. So it makes it agreeable; and Madame de Moidrey is very

hospitable."

Halkett smiled.

"Painters," he said, "have, proverbially, a pretty good time in life."

"Soldiers do, too; don't they?"

Halkett's smile became fixed.

"I've heard so. The main thing about a profession is to choose one

which will take you out of doors."

"Yours does. You can sit under a tree and write your stories, can't

you?"

The Englishman laughed:

"Of course I can. That's the beauty of realism; all you have to do is

to walk about outdoors and jot down a faithful description of everything

you see."

They had reached the little stone _quai_ under the chestnut and lime

trees; the cool ripple of the river mingled with the laughter of young

girls and the gay voices of children at play made a fresh and cheerful

sound in the July sunshine.

They leaned against the mossy river wall and looked out under the trees

across the square which surged with people. Flags fluttered from booths

and white tents; the blare of bands, the tumult of wooden shoes, the

noises of domestic creatures, and human voices all mingled with the

unceasing music from the merry-go-rounds.

Across the esplanade there was a crowd around the Cafe de Biribi--people

constantly passing to and fro--and strains of lively music leaked out

from within.

After a moment Warner suggested that they go over and have something

light and cool to drink.

"I've never been in there," he remarked, as they started, "but I've

always intended to go. It's kept by a rascal named Wildresse--a

sporting man, fight promoter, and an ex-gambler. You've heard of the

Cabaret Wildresse in Paris, haven't you?"

"I think I have," replied Halkett. "It was an all night place on the

Grand Boulevard, wasn't it?"

"Yes; opposite the Grand Hotel. This is the same proprietor. He's an

American--a shady sort of sport--and he certainly must have been a

pretty bad lot, because the police made him leave Paris six years

ago--what for, I don't know--but they fired him out, and he started his

cabaret business here in Ausone. You hear of it everywhere. People

come even from Nancy and Liege and Louvain to dance, and dine

here--certain sorts of people, I mean. The cuisine is celebrated. There

are cockfights and other illegal attractions."

The Cabaret Biribi formed the corner of the square. It was a detached

stucco structure surrounded by green trees and pretty shrubbery; and in

the rear the grounds ran down to the river, where a dozen rowboats were

moored along that still, glassy reach of water which extends for several

miles south of Ausone between meadows and pleasantly wooded banks.

They found the Cabaret Biribi crowded when they went in; a lively young

person was capering on the little stage at the end of the dancing floor,

and singing while capering; soldiers and civilians, with their own or

other people's sweethearts, sat at the zinc tables, consuming light beer

and wine and syrups; a rather agreeable stringed orchestra played

intermittently.

Waiters scurried about with miraculously balanced trays on high; old man

Wildresse roamed furtively in the background, his gorilla arms behind

his back, his blunt fingers interlocked, keeping a sly and ratty eye on

waiters and guests, and sometimes on the young woman cashier who lounged

listlessly upon her high chair behind the wire cage, one rather lank leg

crossed over the other, and her foot swinging in idle time to the music.

The moment that Warner and Halkett appeared in the doorway, looking

about them to find a table, Wildresse crossed the floor and said to his

cashier in a whisper:

"It's one of those men. Schmidt's description might fit either. If

they don't make eyes at you and ask you to dance and drink with them,

come over and join them anyway. And I want you to pump them dry. Do

you hear?"

"Yes, I hear."

Warner looked across the room at her again when he and Halkett were

seated. She had considerable paint on her cheeks, and her lips seemed

too red to be natural. Otherwise she was tragically young, thin,

excepting her throat and cheeks--a grey-eyed, listless young thing with

a mass of chestnut hair crowning her delicately shaped head.

She made change languidly for waiter and guest; acknowledged the salutes

of those entering and leaving without more than a politely detached

interest; smiled at the jests of facetious customers with mechanical

civility when importuned; and, when momentarily idle, swung her long,

slim foot in time to the music and rested her painted cheek on one hand.

Her indifferent grey eyes, sweeping the hall, presently rested on

Warner; and remained on him with a sort of idle insolence until his own

shifted.

Halkett was saying:

"You know that girl--the cashier, I mean--is extraordinarily pretty.

Have you noticed her, Warner?"

Warner turned again:

"I've been looking at her. She's rather thickly tinted, isn't she?"

"Yes. But in spite of the paint. She has a charmingly shaped head.

Some day she'll have a figure."

"Oh, yes; figures and maturity come late to that type.... If you'll

notice, Halkett, those hands of hers are really exquisite. So are her

features--the nose is delicate, the eyes beautifully drawn--she's all in

good drawing--even her mouth, which is a little too full. As an

amateur, don't you agree with me?"

"Very much so. She's a distinct type."

"Yes--there's a certain appeal about her.... It's odd, isn't it--the

inexplicable something about some women that attracts. It doesn't

depend on beauty at all."

Halkett sipped his Moselle wine.

"No, it doesn't depend on beauty, on intelligence, on character, or on

morals. It's in spite of them--in defiance, sometimes. Now, take that

thin girl over there; her lips and cheeks are painted; she has the

indifferent, disenchanted, detached glance of the too early wise. The

chances are that she isn't respectable. And in spite of all that,

Warner--well--look at her."

"I see. A man could paint a troubling portrait of her--a sermon on

canvas."

"Just as she sits there," nodded Halkett.

"Just as she sits there, chin on palm, one lank leg crossed over the

other, and her slim foot dangling.... And the average painter would make

her seem all wrong, Halkett; and I might, too, except for those clear

grey eyes and their childish indifference to the devil's world outside

their ken." He inspected her for a moment more, then: "Yes, in spite of

rouge and other obvious elementals, I should paint her as she really is,

Halkett; and no man in his heart would dare doubt her after I'd

finished."

"That's not realism," remarked Halkett, laughing.

"It's the vital essence of it. You know I'm something of a gambler.

Well, if I painted that girl as she sits there now, in this noisy,

messy, crowded cabaret, with the artificial tint on lip and cheek--if I

painted her just as she appears to us, and in all the insolently

youthful relaxation of her attitude--I'd be gambling all the while with

myself that the soul inside her is as clean as a flame; and I'd paint

that conviction into her portrait with every brush stroke! What do you

think of that view of her?"

"As you Americans say, you're some poet," observed Halkett, laughingly.

"A poet is an advanced psychologist. He begins where scientific

deduction ends."

"That's what makes your military pictures so convincing," said Halkett,

with his quick smile. "It's not only the correctness of details and the

spirited drawing and color, but you _do_ see into the very souls of the

men you paint, and their innermost characters are there, revealed in the

supreme crisis of the moment." He smiled quietly. "I'll believe it if

_you_ say that young girl over there is quite all right."

"I'd paint her that way, anyhow."

The singing on the stage had ceased from troubling, and the stringed

orchestra was playing one of the latest and most inane of dance steps.

A clumsy _piou-piou_ got up with his fresh-cheeked partner; other

couples rose from the sloppy tables, and in another moment the dancing

floor was uncomfortably crowded.

It was a noisy place; a group of summer touring students from Louvain,

across the border, were singing "La Brabanconne"--a very patriotic and

commendable attempt, but it scarcely harmonized with the dance music.

Perspiring waiters rushed hither and thither, their trays piled high;

the dancers trotted and spun around and galloped about over the waxed

floor; the young girl behind her wire wicket swung her narrow foot to

and fro and gazed imperturbably out across the tumult.

"Philippa!" cried one of the Louvain students, hammering on the table

with his beer glass. "Come out from behind your _guichet_ and dance

with me!"

The girl's grey eyes turned superciliously toward the speaker, but she

neither answered nor moved her head.

The young man blew a kiss toward her and attempted to climb upon the

zinc table, but old man Wildresse, who was prowling near, tapped him on

the shoulder.

"Pas de betise!" he growled. "Soyez sage! Restez tranquille, nom de

Dieu!"

"I merely desired the honor of dancing with your charming cashier--"

"Allons! Assez! It's sufficient to ask her, isn't it? A woman dances

with whom she chooses."

And, grumbling, he walked on with his heavy sidling step, hands clasped

behind him, his big, hard, smoothly shaven face lowered and partly

turned, as though eternally listening for somebody just at his heels.

Always sidling nearer to the table where Warner and Halkett were seated,

he paused, presently, and looked down at them, shot a glance across at

the girl, Philippa, caught her eye, nodded significantly. Then,

addressing Warner and his new friend:

"Well, gentlemen," he said in English, "are you amusing yourselves in

the Cafe Biribi?"

"Sufficiently," nodded Warner.

Wildresse peeped stealthily over his shoulder, as though expecting to

surprise a listener. Then his very small black eyes stole toward

Halkett, and he furtively examined him.

"_Jour de fete_," he remarked in his harshly resonant voice. "Grand

doings in town tonight. Do you gentlemen dine here this evening?"

"I think not," said Warner.

"I am sorry. It will be gay. There are dance partners to be had for a

polite bow. You should see my little _caissiere_ yonder!" He made a

grunting sound and kissed his blunt fingers to the ceiling. "M-m-m!" he

growled. "_She_ can dance! But I don't permit her to dance very often.

Only a special client now and then----"

"May we consider ourselves special clients?" inquired Warner, amused.

"Oh, I don't say yes and I don't say no." He jerked his round, shaven

head. "It all depends on _her_. She dances with whom she pleases. And

if the Emperor of China asked her, nevertheless she should be free to

please herself."

"She's very pretty," said Halkett.

"Others have said so before you in the Cabaret de Biribi."

"Why do you call your cabaret the Cafe Biribi?" asked Warner.

"Eh? By God, I call it Biribi because I'm not ashamed of the name."

Halkett looked up into his wicked black eyes, and Wildresse wagged his

finger at him.

"Supposition," he said, "that your son is a good boy--a little lively,

but a good boy--and he comes of age and he goes with his class for two

years--three years now, and to hell with it!

"Bon! Supposition, also, that his sergeant is a tyrant, his captain an

ass, his colonel an imbecile! Bon! Given a little natural ardor--a

trifle of animal spirits, and the lad is up before the

council--bang!--and he gets his in the battalions of Biribi!"

His voice had become a sort of ominous growl.

"As for me," he said heavily, "I mock at their council and their

blockhead colonel! I accept their challenge; I do not conceal that my

son is serving in a disciplinary battalion; I salute all the battalions

of Biribi--where there are better men in the ranks than there are in

many a regiment of the line, by God! And I honor those battalions by

naming my cabaret 'Biribi.' The Government gets no change out of me!"

The man asserted too much, swaggered too obviously; and Halkett, not

suspicious but always cautious, kept his inquiring eyes fixed on him.

Warner said with a smile:

"You have the courage of your convictions, Monsieur Wildresse."

"As for that," growled Wildresse, casting another stealthy glance behind

him, "I've got courage. Courage? Who hasn't? Everybody's got courage.

It's brains the world lacks. Excuse me, gentlemen--affairs of

business--and if you want to dance with my little cashier, there is no

harm in asking her." And he shuffled away, his heavy head bent

sideways, his hands tightly clasped behind him.

"There's an evil type," remarked Halkett. "What a brute it is!"

Warner said:

"With his cropped head and his smooth, pasty face, and those unpleasant

black eyes of his, he looks like an ex-convict. It doesn't astonish me

that he has a son serving in the disciplinary battalions of Africa."

"Does it astonish you that he is the employer of that girl behind the

counter?" asked Halkett.

Warner turned to look at her again:

"It's interesting, isn't it? She seems to be another breed."

"Yes. Now, what do you make of her?"

Warner hesitated, then looked up with a laugh.

"Halkett," he said, "I'm going over to ask her to dance."

"All right; I'll hold the table," said the Englishman, amused. And

Warner rose, skirted the dancers, and walked around to the cashier's

desk, aware all the while that the girl's indifferent grey eyes were

following his movements.

*CHAPTER III*

Warner tucked his walking stick and straw hat under one arm and,

sauntering over to the cashier's desk, made a very nice and thoroughly

Continental bow to the girl behind it.

Her impartial and uninterested gaze rested on him; after a moment she

inclined her head, leisurely and in silence.

He said in French:

"Would Mademoiselle do me the honor of dancing this dance with me?"

She replied in a sweet but indifferent voice:

"Monsieur is too amiable. But he sees that I am _caissiere_ of the

establishment."

"Yet even the fixed stars of heaven dance sometimes to the music of the

spheres."

She smiled slightly:

"When one is merely a fixture _de cabaret_, one dances only to the music

of the _Sbires_! You must ask Monsieur Wildresse if I may dance with

you."

"He suggested that I ask you."

"Very well, if it's a matter of business----"

Warner laughed.

"Don't you ever dance for pleasure?" he asked in English.

She replied in English:

"Is it your theory that it would give me pleasure to dance with you?"

"It is," he said, still laughing. "But by demonstration alone are

theories proven."

The girl hesitated, her grey eyes resting on him. Then she turned her

head, drew a pencil from her chestnut hair, rapped with it on the

counter. A head waiter came speeding to her.

"Aristide, I'm going to dance," she said in the same sweetly indifferent

voice. "Have the goodness to sit in my chair until I return or Melanie

arrives."

She slid to the floor from her high seat, came out, through the wire

gate, and began to unpin her cambric apron.

The closer view revealed to him her thinness in her black gown. She was

not so tall as he had thought her, and she was younger; but he had been

right about her cheeks and lips. Both were outrageously painted.

She handed her daintily embroidered apron to the waiter, laid one hand

lightly on Warner's arm; he led her to the edge of the dancing floor,

clasped her waist and swung her with him out into the noisy whirl

beyond.

Thin, almost immature in her angular slenderness, the girl in motion

became enchantingly graceful. Supple as a sapling in the summer wind,

her hand rested feather-light in his; her long, narrow feet seemed like

shadows close above the floor, never touching it.

The orchestra ceased playing after a few minutes, but old man Wildresse,

who had been watching them, growled, "Go on!" and the music recommenced

amid plaudits and shouts of general approval.

Once, as they passed the students' table, Warner heard the voice of old

Wildresse in menacing dispute with the student who had first shouted out

an invitation to Philippa.

"She dances with whom she chooses!" roared Wildresse. "Do you

understand, Monsieur? By God, if the Grand Turk himself asked her she

should not dance with him unless she wished to!"

Warner said to her jestingly:

"Did the Grand Turk ever ask you, Philippa?"

The girl did not smile.

"Perhaps I am dancing with him now. One never knows--in a cabaret."

When the music ceased she was breathing only a trifle faster, and her

cheeks under the paint glowed softly pink.

"Could you join us?" he asked. "Is it permitted?"

"I'd like to.... Yes."

So he took her back to the table, where Halkett rose and paid his

respects gracefully; and they seated themselves and ordered a grenadine

for her.

Old Wildresse, sidling by, paused with a non-committal grunt:

"Eh bien? On s'amuse? Dis, petit galopin!"

"I'm thirsty," said the girl Philippa.

"And your _caisse_?"

"Tell them to find Melanie," she retorted indifferently.

"Bon! A _jour de fete_, too! How long are you going to be?" But as

she glanced up he winked at her.

She shrugged her shoulders, leaned forward, chose a straw, and plunged

it into the crimson depths of her iced grenadine.

Old Wildresse looked at her a moment, then he also shrugged his

shoulders and went shuffling away, always apparently distrustful of that

invisible something just behind his back.

Halkett said:

"Mr. Warner and I have been discussing an imaginary portrait of you."

"What?" The clear, grey eyes turned questioningly to him, to Warner.

The latter nodded:

"I happen to be a painter. Mr. Halkett and I have agreed that it would

be an interesting experiment to paint your portrait--_as you really

are_."

The girl seemed slightly puzzled.

"As I really am?" she repeated. "But, Messieurs, am I not what you see

before you?"

The music began again; the Louvain student, a little tipsy but very

decorous, arose, bowed to the girl Philippa, bowed to Halkett and to

Warner, and asked for the honor of a dance with her.

"Merci, Monsieur--another time, perhaps," she replied indifferently.

The boy seemed disposed to linger, but he was not quarrelsome, and

finally Halkett got up and led him away.

From moment to moment Warner, glancing across during his tete-a-tete

with the girl Philippa, could see the Louvain student continually

shaking hands with Halkett who seemed horribly bored.

A little later still the entire Louvain delegation insisted on

entertaining Halkett with beer and song; and the resigned but polite

Englishman, now seated at their table, was being taught to sing "La

Brabanconne," between draughts of Belgian beer.

The girl Philippa played with the stem of her glass and stirred the ice

in it with her broken wheat straw. The healthy color in her face had now

faded to an indoor pallor again under the rouge.

"So you are a painter," she said, her grey eyes fixed absently on her

glass. "Are you a distinguished painter, Monsieur?"

He laughed:

"You'll have to ask others that question, Philippa."

"Why? Don't you know whether you are distinguished?"

"I've had some success," he admitted, amused.

She thought a moment, then leaned forward toward the Louvain table.

"Mr. Halkett," she called in English. "Is Mr. Warner a distinguished

American painter?"

Halkett laughed.

"One of the most celebrated American painters of the day!"

The Louvain students, understanding, rose as a man, waved their glasses,

and cheered for Warner, the "_grand peintre Americain_." Which

embarrassed and annoyed him so that his face grew brighter than the

paint on Philippa's lips.

"I'm sorry," she said, noticing his annoyance. "I did not mean to make

you conspicuous."

Everybody in the cafe was now looking at him; on every side he gazed

into amused and smiling faces, saw glasses lifted, heard the cries of

easily aroused Gallic enthusiasm.

"Vive le grand peintre Americain! Vive l'Amerique du Nord!"

"This is tiresome!" exclaimed Philippa. "Let us walk down to the river

and sit in one of our boats. I should really like to talk to you

sensibly--unless you are too much annoyed with me."

She beckoned a waiter to bring her apron; and she put it on.

"When you are ready, Monsieur," she said serenely.

So they rose; Warner paid the bill, and, with a whimsical smile at

Halkett, walked out beside Philippa through one of the rear doors, and

immediately found himself in brightest sunshine, amid green trees and

flower beds.

Here, under the pitiless sky, the girl's face became ghastly under its

rouged mask--the more shocking, perhaps, because her natural skin, if

pale, appeared to be smooth and clear; and the tragic youth of her

seemed to appeal to all out of doors from the senseless abuse it was

enduring.

To see her there in the freshness of the open breeze, sunshine and

shadow dappling the green under foot, the blue overhead untroubled by a

cloud, gave Warner a slightly sick sensation.

"The air is pleasant," she remarked, unconscious of the effect she had

on him.

He nodded. They walked down the grassy slope to the river bank, where

rows of boats lay moored. A few were already in use out on the calm

stream; young men in their shirt sleeves splashed valiantly at the oars;

young women looked on under sunshades of flamboyant tints.

There was a white punt there called the _Lys_. Philippa stepped into it,

drew a key from her apron pocket, unlocked the padlock. Then, lifting

the pole from the grass, she turned and invited Warner with a gesture.

He had not bargained for this; but he tossed the chain aboard, stepped

in, and offered to take the pole.

But Philippa evidently desired to do the punting herself; so he sat

back, watching her sometimes and sometimes looking at the foliage, where

they glided swiftly along under overhanging branches and through still,

glimmering reaches of green water, set with scented rushes where dragon

flies glittered and midges danced in clouds, and the slim green frogs

floated like water sprites, partly submerged, looking at them out of

golden goblin eyes that never blinked.

"The town is _en fete_," remarked Philippa presently. "Why should I not

be too?"

Warner laughed:

"Do you call this a _fete_?"

"For me, yes." ... After a moment, turning from her pole: "Do you not

find it agreeable?"

"Certainly. What little river is this?"

"The Recollette."

"It flows by Sais, too. I did not recognize it for the same. The

Recollette is swifter and shallower below Sais."

"You know Sais, then?"

"I live there in summer."

"Oh. And in winter?"

"Paris."

An unconscious sigh of relief escaped her, that it was not necessary to

play the spy with this man. It was the other man who interested

Wildresse.

The girl poled on in silence for a while, then deftly guided the _Lys_

into the cool green shadow of a huge oak which overhung the water, the

lower branches touching it.

"The sun is warm," she observed, driving in the pole and tying the white

punt so that it could swing with the current.

She came and seated herself by Warner, smiled frankly.

"Do you know," she said, "I've never before done this for pleasure."

"What haven't you done for pleasure?" he inquired, perplexed.

"This--what I am doing."

"You mean you never before went out punting with a customer?"

"Not for the pleasure of it--only for business reasons."

He hesitated to understand, refused to, because, for all her careless

freedom and her paint, he could not believe her to be merely a _fille de

cabaret_.

"Business reasons," he repeated. "What is your business?"

"Cashier, of course."

"Well, does your business ever take you boating with customers? Is it

part of your business to dance with a customer and drink grenadine with

him?"

"Yes, but you wouldn't understand----" And suddenly she comprehended

his misunderstanding of her and blushed deeply.

"I am not a _cocotte_. Did you think I meant that?"

"I know you are not. I didn't know what you meant."

There was a silence; the color in her cheeks cooled under the rouge.

"It happened this way," she said quietly. "I didn't want to make it a

matter of business with you. Even in the beginning I didn't.... You

please me.... After all, the town is _en fete_.... After all, a girl

has a right to please herself once in her life.... And business is a

very lonely thing for the young.... Why shouldn't I amuse myself for an

hour with a client who pleases me?"

"Are you doing it?"

"Yes. I never before knew a distinguished painter--only noisy boys from

the schools, whose hair is uncut, whose conversation is _blague_, and

whose trousers are too baggy to suit me. They smoke soldier's tobacco,

and their subjects of discussion are not always _convenable_."

He said, curiously:

"As for that, you must hear much that is not _convenable_ in the

cabaret."

"Oh, yes. I don't notice it when it is not addressed to me.... Please

tell me what you paint--if I am permitted to ask."

"Soldiers."

"Only soldiers?"

"Portraits, sometimes, and landscapes out of doors--anything that

appeals to me. Do pictures interest you?"

"I used to go to the Louvre and the Luxembourg when I was a child. It

was interesting. Did you say that you would like to make a portrait of

me?"

"I said that if I ever did make a portrait of you I'd paint you _as you

really are_."

Her perplexed gaze had the disconcerting directness of a child's.

"I don't understand," she said.

"Shall I explain?"

"If you would be so kind."

"You won't be offended?"

She regarded him silently; her brows became slightly contracted.

"Such a man as you would not willingly offend, I think."

"No, of course not. I didn't mean that sort of thing. But you might not

like what I have to say."

"If I merit what you say about me, it doesn't matter whether I like it

or not, does it? Tell me."

He laughed:

"Well, then, if I were going to paint you, I'd first ask you to wash

your cheeks."

She sat silent, humiliated, the painful color deepening and waning under

the rouge.

"And," he continued pleasantly, "after your face had been well scrubbed,

I'd paint you in your black gown, cuffs and apron of a _caissiere_, just

as I first saw you there behind the desk, one foot swinging, and your

cheek resting on your hand.

"But behind your eyes, which looked out so tranquilly across the tumult

of the cabaret, I'd paint a soul as clean as a flame.... I'm wondering

whether I'd make any mistake in painting you that way, Philippa?"

The girl Philippa had fixed her grey eyes on him with fascinated but

troubled intensity. They remained so for a while after he had finished

speaking.

Presently, and partly to herself, she said:

"_Pour ca_--no. So far. But it has never before occurred to me that I

look like a _cocotte_."

She turned, and, resting one arm on the gunwale, gazed down into the

limpid green water.

"Have you a fresh handkerchief?" she asked, not turning toward him.

"Yes--but----"

"Please! I must wash my face."

She bent swiftly, dipped both hands into the water, and scrubbed her

lips and cheeks. Then, extending her arm behind her for the

handkerchief, she dried her skin, sat up again, and faced him with

childish resignation. A few freckles had become visible; her lips were

no longer vivid, and there now remained only the faintest tint of color

under her clear, cool skin.

"You see," she said, "I'm not attractive unless I help nature. One

naturally desires to be thought attractive."

"On the contrary, you are exceedingly attractive!"

"Are you sincere?"

"Perfectly."

"But I have several freckles near my nose. And I am pale."

"You are entirely attractive," he repeated, laughing.

"With my freckles! You are joking. Also, I have no pink in my cheeks

now." She shrugged. "However--if you like me this way----" She

shrugged again, as though that settled everything.

Another punt passed them; she looked after it absently. Presently she

said, still watching the receding boat:

"Do you think you'll ever come again to the Cafe Biribi?"

"I'll come expressly to see you, Philippa," he replied.

To his surprise the girl blushed vividly and looked away from him; and

he hastily took a different tone, somewhat astonished that such a girl

should not have learned long ago how to take the irresponsible badinage

of men. Certainly she must have had plenty of opportunity for such

schooling.

"When I'm in Ausone again," he said seriously, "I'll bring with me a

canvas and brushes. And if Monsieur Wildresse doesn't mind I'll make a

little study of you. Shall I, Philippa?"

"Would you care to?"

"Very much. Do you think Monsieur Wildresse would permit it?"

"I do what I choose."

"Oh!"

She misunderstood his amused exclamation, and she flushed up.

"My conduct has been good--so far," she explained. "Everybody knows it.

The _prix de la rosiere_ is not yet beyond me. If a girl determines to

behave otherwise, who can stop her, and what? Not her parents--if she

has any; not bolts and keys. No; it is understood between Monsieur

Wildresse and me that I do what I choose. And, Monsieur, so far I have

not chosen--indiscreetly----" She looked up calmly. "----In spite of

my painted cheeks which annoyed you----"

"I didn't mean----"

"I understand. You think that it is more _comme il faut_ to exhibit

one's freckles to the world than to paint them out."

"It's a thousand times better! If you only knew how pretty you

are--just as you are now--with your soft, girlish skin and your chestnut

hair and your enchanting grey eyes----"

"Monsieur----"

The girl's rising color and her low-voiced exclamation warned him again

that detached and quite impersonal praises from him were not understood.

"Philippa," he explained with bored but smiling reassurance, "I'm merely

telling you what a really pretty girl you are; I'm not paying court to

you. Didn't you understand?"

The grey eyes were lifted frankly to his; questioned him in silence.

"In America a man may say as much to a girl and mean nothing

more--important," he explained. "I'm not trying to make love to you,

Philippa. Were you afraid I was?"

She said slowly:

"I was not exactly--_afraid_."

"I don't do that sort of thing," he continued pleasantly. "I don't make

love to anybody. I'm too busy a man. Also, I would not offend you by

talking to you about love."

She looked down at her folded hands. Since she had been with him

nothing had seemed very real to her, nothing very clear, except that for

the first time in her brief life she was interested in a man on whom she

was supposed to be spying.

The Gallic and partly morbid traditions she had picked up in such a

girlhood as had been hers were now making for her an important personal

episode out of their encounter, and were lending a fictitious and

perhaps a touching value to every word he uttered.

But more important and most significant of anything to her was her own

natural inclination for him. For her he already possessed immortal

distinction; he was her first man.

She was remembering that she had gone to him after exchanging a glance

with Wildresse, when he had first asked her to dance. But she had

needed no further persuasion to sit with him at his table; she had even

forgotten her miserable role when she asked him to go out to the river

with her. The significance of all this, according to her Gallic

tradition, was now confronting her, emphasizing the fact that she was

still with him.

As she sat there, her hands clasped in her lap, the sunlit reality of it

all seemed brightly confused as in a dream--a vivid dream which casts a

deeper enchantment over slumber, holding the sleeper fascinated under

the tense concentration of the happy spell. Subconsciously she seemed to

be aware that, according to tradition, this conduct of hers must be

merely preliminary to something further; that, in sequence, other

episodes were preparing--were becoming inevitable. And she thought of

what he had said about making love.

Folding and unfolding her hands, and looking down at them rather

fixedly, she said:

"Apropos of love--I have never been angry because men told me they were

in love with me.... Men love; it is natural; they cannot help it. So,

if you had said so, I should not have been angry. No, not at all,

Monsieur."

"Philippa," he said smilingly, "when a girl and a man happen to be alone

together, love isn't the only entertaining subject for conversation, is

it?"

"It's the subject I've always had to listen to from men. Perhaps that

is why I thought--when you spoke so amiably of my--my----"

"Beauty," added Warner frankly, "--because it _is_ beauty, Philippa.

But I meant only to express the pleasure that it gave to a painter--yes,

and to a man who can admire without offense, and say so quite as

honestly."

The girl slowly raised her eyes.

"You speak very pleasantly to me," she said. "Are other American men

like you?"

"You ought to know. Aren't you American?"

"I don't know what I am."

"Why, I thought--your name was Philippa Wildresse."

"I am called that."

"Then Monsieur Wildresse isn't a relation?"

"No. I wear his name for lack of any other.... He found me somewhere,

he says.... In Paris, I believe.... That is all he will tell me."

"Evidently," said Warner in his pleasant, sympathetic voice, "you have

had an education somewhere."

"He sent me to school in England until I was sixteen.... After that I

became cashier for him."

"He gave you his name, and he supports you.... Is he kind to you?"

"He has never struck me."

"Does he protect you?"

"He uses me in business.... I am too valuable to misuse."

The girl looked down at her folded hands. And even Warner divined what

ultimate chances she stood in the Cabaret de Biribi.

"When I'm in Ausone again, I'll come to see you," he said pleasantly.

"--Not to make love to you, Philippa," he added with a smile, "but just

because we have become such good friends out here in the _Lys_."

"Yes," she said, "friends. I shall be glad to see you. I shall always

try to understand you--whatever you say to me."

"That's as it should be!" he exclaimed heartily. "Give me your hand on

it, Philippa."

She laid her hand in his gravely. They exchanged a slight pressure.

Then he glanced at his watch, rose, and picked up the pole.

"I've got to drive to Sais in time for dinner," he remarked. "I'm

sorry, because I'd like to stay out here with you."

"I'm sorry, too," she said.

The next moment the punt shot out into the sunny stream.

*CHAPTER IV*

Warner and the girl Philippa reentered the Cabaret de Biribi together

the uproar had become almost deafening. Confetti was thrown at them

immediately, and they advanced all a-flutter with brilliant tatters.

The orchestra was playing, almost everybody was dancing, groups at

tables along the edge of the floor sang, clinked glasses, and threw

confetti without discrimination. The whole place--tables, floor,

chandeliers, and people--streamed with multi-colored paper ribbons.

Waiters swept it in heaps from the dancing floor.

Philippa entered the cashier's enclosure and dismissed the woman in

charge. Seated once more on her high chair she opened her reticule and

produced a small mirror. Then she leaned far over her counter toward

Warner.

"Is it permitted me to powder my nose?" she whispered with childlike

seriousness; but she laughed when he did, and, still laughing, made him

a gay little gesture of adieu with her powder puff.

He stood looking at her for a moment, where she sat on her high chair

behind the cage, intently occupied with her mirror, oblivious to the

tumult around her. Then, the smile still lingering on his features, he

turned to look for his new acquaintance, Halkett.

Old man Wildresse sidled up to the cashier's desk, opened the wicket,

and went inside. Philippa, still using her tiny mirror, was examining a

freckle very seriously.

"Eh, bien?" he growled. "Rien?"

"Nothing!"

"Drop that glass and talk!" he said harshly.

She turned and looked at him.

"I tell you it was silly to suspect such a man!" she said impatiently.

"In my heart I feel humiliated that you should have set me to spy on

him----"

"What's that!"

"No, I've had enough! I don't like the role; I never liked it! Are

there no police in France----"

"Little idiot!" he said. "Will you hold your tongue?"

"It is a disgusting _metier_----"

"Damnation! Hold your tongue!" he repeated. "We've got to do what the

Government tells us to do, haven't we?"

"Not I! Never again----"

"Yes, you will! Do you hear? Yes, you will, or I'll twist your neck!

Now, I'm going to keep my eye on that other gentleman. Granted that the

man you pumped is all right, I'm not so sure about the other, who seems

to be an Englishman. I'm going over to stand near him. By and by I'll

address him. And if I wink at you, leave your _caisse_ with Melanie,

come over, and sit at their table again----"

"No!"

"Yes, you will!"

"No!"

"Yes, you will. And you'll also contrive it so the Englishman asks you

to dance. Do you hear what I say? And you'll find out where he comes

from, and when he arrived in Ausone, and where he is going, and whatever

else you can worm out of him!" He glared at her. "Disobey if you

dare," he added.

She was silent.

After a moment he continued in a softer voice:

"Do you want to see me in prison and my son in New Caledonia? Very

well, then; do what the Government tells you to do."

"I--I've done enough--filthy work----" she stammered. "Why must I? I

have never done anything wrong----"

"Did you hear what I said? Do you want to see Jacques in Noumea?"

"No," she said sullenly.

"Then do what I tell you, or, by God, they'll ship him there and me

too!"

And he clasped his hands behind his back, peered sideways at her,

shrugged, and went shuffling out of the enclosure.

Groups at various tables were singing and shouting; the floor seethed

with sweating dancers. On the edge of this vortex the girl Philippa,

from her high chair, looked darkly across the tumult toward the table

where Halkett sat.

Something seemed to be happening there; she could see Wildresse

gesticulating vigorously; she saw Warner making his way toward his

friend, who was seated alone at a table, a lighted cigarette balanced

between his fingers and one arm thrown carelessly around the back of the

chair on which he sat.

He was looking coolly but steadily at three men who occupied the table

next to him; Wildresse now stood between the two tables, and his

emphatic gesticulations were apparently directed toward these three men;

but in the uproar, and although he also appeared to be shouting, what he

was saying remained inaudible.

Warner went over and seated himself beside Halkett; and now he could

distinguish the harsh voice of the Patron raised in irritation:

"No politics! I'll not suffer political disputes in my cabaret!" he

bawled. "Quarrels arise from such controversies. I'll have no quarrels

in my place. Now, Messieurs, _un peu de complaisance_!"

One of the men he was exhorting leaned wide in his seat and looked

insolently across at Halkett.

"It was the Englishman's fault," he retorted threateningly. "I and my

friends here had been speaking of the assassination of the Archduke

Francis Ferdinand in Serajevo. We were conversing peaceably and

privately among ourselves, when that Englishman laughed at us----"

"You are mistaken," said Halkett quietly.

"Did you not laugh?" cried the second of the men at the next table.

"Yes, but not at what you were saying. I'm sorry if you thought so----"

The man half rose in his chair, exclaiming:

"Why shouldn't I think it natural for an Englishman to laugh at the

murder of an Austrian arch-duke----"

"Stop that discussion!" cried Wildresse, angrily jerking his heavy head

from Halkett to the three men at the other table. "Let it rest where it

is, I tell you! The English gentleman says he did not laugh at what you

were saying. Nom de Dieu! Nobody well brought up laughs at murder!"

And to Halkett and Warner: "Be amiable enough, gentlemen, to carry this

misunderstanding no further. I've had sufficient trouble with the

police in my time."

Warner laid one hand lightly on Halkett's arm.

"All right," he said to Wildresse; "no trouble shall originate with us."

And, to Halkett, in a lowered voice: "Have you an idea that those men

over there are trying to force a quarrel?"

"Of course."

"Have you ever seen them before?"

"Not one of them."

Warner's lips scarcely moved as he said:

"Is it the matter of the envelope?"

"I think so. And, Warner, I don't intend to drag you into any----"

"Wait. Are you armed?"

Halkett shook his head.

"That's no good," he said. "I can't afford to do anything conspicuous.

If I'm involved with the authorities I'm done for, and I might just as

well be knocked on the head." After a moment he added: "I think perhaps

you'd better say good-by to me now, Warner----"

"Why?"

"Because, if they manage to force a quarrel, I don't mean to have you

involved----"

"Do you really expect me to run away?" asked Warner, laughing.

Halkett looked up at him with a faint smile:

"I'm under very heavy obligations to you already----"

"You are coming to Sais with me."

"Thanks so much, but----"

"Come on, Halkett. I'm not going to leave you here."

"My dear chap, I'll wriggle out somehow. I've done it before. After

all, they may not mean mischief."

Warner turned and looked across at the three men. Two were whispering

together; the third, arms folded, was staring truculently at Halkett out

of his light blue eyes.

Warner turned his head and said quietly to Halkett:

"I take two of them to be South Germans or Austrians. The other might be

Alsatian. Do any of these possible nationalities worry you?"

"Exactly," said Halkett coolly.

"In other words, any trouble you may expect is likely to come from

Germans?"

"That's about it."

Warner lighted a cigarette.

"Shall we try a quiet getaway?" he asked.

"No; I'll look out for myself. Clear out, Warner, there's a good

fellow----"

"Don't ask me to do a thing that you wouldn't do," retorted Warner

sharply. "Come on; I'm going to drive you to Sais."

Halkett flushed.

"I shan't forget how decent you've been," he said. They summoned the

waiter, paid the reckoning, rose, and walked leisurely toward the door.

At the _caissiere's_ desk they turned aside to say good-night to

Philippa.

The girl looked up from her accounts, pencil poised, gazing at Warner.

"_Au revoir_, Philippa," he said, smilingly.

The girl's serious features relaxed; she nodded to him gayly, turned,

still smiling, to include Halkett. And instantly a swift change altered

her face; she half rose from her chair, arm outstretched.

"What is that man doing behind you!" she cried out--too late to avert

what she saw coming. For the man close behind Halkett had dexterously

passed a silk handkerchief across his throat from behind and had jerked

him backward; and, like lightning, two other men appeared on either side

of him, tore his coat wide, and thrust their hands into his breast

pockets.

Warner pivoted on his heel and swung hard on the man with the silk

handkerchief, driving him head-on into the table behind, which fell with

a crash of glassware. Halkett, off his balance, fell on top of the

table, dragging with him one of the men whose hand had become entangled

in his breast pocket.

The people who had been seated at the table were hurled right and left

among the neighboring tables; a howl of anger and protest burst from the

crowd; there came a shout of "_Cochon_!"--a rush to see what had

happened; people mounted on chairs, waiters arrived, running. Out of

the melee Halkett wriggled and rose, coughing, his features still

crimson from partial strangulation. Warner caught his arm in a grip of

iron and whisked him out of the door. The next instant they were

engulfed in the crowds thronging the market square.

Warner, thoroughly aroused and excited, still maintained his grip on

Halkett's arm.

"Did you ever see anything like it?" he said in a low voice. "It came

like a bolt from the sky. That was the _Coup du Pere Francois_. Did

they get anything from you?"

Halkett spoke with difficulty, pressing his throat with his fingers and

trying to smile.

"What they got," he said, "was meant for them to get--time-tables and a

ticket to Paris. I don't intend to travel that way----" A fit of

coughing shook him. "----For a moment I thought they'd actually broken

my neck. What did you do to that fellow with his noose?"

"He fell on the table behind you. Everybody was piled up with the

crockery. You wriggled out like a lizard." He turned cautiously and

looked back over his shoulder. "Do you think we have been followed?"

"I can't see that we are."

They entered the rue d'Auros and turned into the Hotel Boule d'Argent.

Warner sent a chasseur to the stables for his horse and dogcart; Halkett

hastened to collect his luggage.

In a few minutes the horse and cart came rattling out of the mews;

luggage, canvases, and the sack of colors were placed in the boot;

Warner mounted, taking reins and whip; Halkett sprang up beside him, and

the groom freed the horse's head.

Into the almost deserted Boulevard d'Athos they went at a lively clip,

circled the lovely church of Sainte Cassilda at the head of it, and

trotted out into the broad highroad which swings cast to the river

Recollette, and follows that pretty little stream almost due south to

the hills and cliffs and woods and meadows of Sais.

The sun hung low above the fields, reddening the roadside bushes and

painting the tall ranks of poplars with vivid streaks of gold and rose.

Just outside the remains of the old town wall they passed through a

suburban hamlet. That, except for a farm or two more, included the last

houses this side of Sais.

For a little while neither of the young men spoke; Halkett's cough had

ceased, but now and then he fidgeted with his collar as though to ease

it from the bruised throat. Warner drove, looking straight between his

horse's ears, as though intently preoccupied with his navigation.

After a while Halkett said:

"The envelope is safe, I take it:"

"Oh, yes. They never noticed me until I hit one of them."

"I'm so grateful," said Halkett, "that it's quite useless for me to try

to say so----"

"Listen! I'm enjoying it. I'm grateful to _you_, Halkett, for giving

me the opportunity. I needed touching up." He laughed in sheer

exhilaration. "We stodgy professional people ought to be stirred out of

our ruts, A little mix-up like that with a prospect of others is exactly

what I needed."

Halkett smiled rather dryly.

"Oh," he said. "If it strikes you that way, I shall feel much

relieved."

"Relieve yourself of all embarrassment," returned Warner gayly. "If our

acquaintance entails further scraps with those gentlemen, I shall be

merely the more grateful to you."

They both laughed; Warner swung his long whip like a fly rod and caught

the loop cleverly on his whip-stock.

Halkett, still laughing, said:

"You don't look as though you enjoyed a cabaret fight. You look far too

respectable."

"Oh, I am respectable, I suppose. But I'm not very aged yet, and my

student days are still rather near."

The road curved out now along the Recollette where it still flowed a

placid stream between green meadows and through charming bits of

woodland. In the glass of the flood the sunset sky was mirrored;

swallows cut the still, golden surface; slowly spreading circles of

rising fish starred it at intervals.

"So you don't go armed?" remarked Warner thoughtfully.

"No."

The American pointed with the butt of his whip to the dashboard where

the blue-black butts of two automatics appeared from slung holsters.

"Why the artillery?" inquired Halkett.

"I drive my neighbor, Madame de Moidrey, sometimes; and in summer it is

often dark before we return. It's a lovely country; also, the quarrymen

at the cement works are a rough lot. So I let my pretty neighbor take

no chances with me."

"Quite right," nodded Halkett. "When quarrymen get drunk it's no joke.

What quarry is it?"

"The Esser Company. It's a German cement concern, I believe."

"German?"

"I believe so."

"Where is this quarry?"

"In the hills back of the Recollette. They run barges to Ausone. Just

below their canal the Recollette becomes unnavigable, and the shallows

and rapids continue for several miles below Sais. That is the reason, I

suppose, that the country around Sais remains primitive and undeveloped,

lacking as it does railroad and water transportation."

"I wonder," said Halkett thoughtfully, "whether I might see the quarry

and cement works. It must be interesting."

Warner shrugged:

"If that sort of thing interests you, I'll take you over. It's a messy

place full of stone crushers and derricks and broken rock and pits full

of green water. Still, if you want to see it----"

"Thanks, I should like to."

Warner glanced at him; a slight grin touched his lips.

"You seem to be interested in a great many kinds of business," he said,

"--literature, military science, cement works, cabaret life----"

Halkett laughed outright; but the next moment he turned like a flash in

his seat, and Warner also cast a quick glance behind him.

"A car coming!" he said, driving to the right. "What's the matter,

Halkett? You don't think it's after us?"

"I think it is."

"What?"

"I know damned well it is!" said Halkett between his teeth. "Shall I

jump and swim for it? Pull in a moment, Warner----"

"Wait! Do you see that gate in the hedge? Get out and open it. Quick,

Halkett! I know what to do----"

Halkett leaped, dragged open the gate; Warner swung his horse and drove

through and out into a swampy meadow set with wild flowers and bushes

and slender saplings.

The wheels of the cart cut through the spongy sod and sank almost to the

hubs, but Warner used his whip and Halkett, taking the horse by the

head, ran forward beside the swaying cart. Right across their path

flowed a deep, narrow stream, partly invisible between reeds and tufts

of swamp weed; Warner turned the vehicle with difficulty, urged his

nervous horse across a cattle bridge which had been fashioned out of a

few loose planks, and drove up on firmer ground among tall ferns and

willow bushes.

"Pull up those planks!" he shouted back to Halkett, guiding his horse

with difficulty; and Halkett ran back, lifted the mossy, half rotted

planks, and threw them up among the bushes.

A grey touring car which had halted on the highway outside the hedge had

now turned after them through the gate; and already the driver was

having a bad time of it in the swampy meadow.

As Halkett lifted the last plank that spanned the brook, one of three

men in the tonneau of the car stood up and fired a revolver at him; and

another of the men, seated beside him, also fired deliberately, resting

his elbow on the side of the stalled car to steady his aim, and

supporting the revolver with his left hand under the barrel.

Halkett ran back to where the cart stood, partly concealed among the

ferns and bushes; Warner, holding whip and reins in one hand, passed him

an automatic revolver and drew out the other weapon for his own use.

"This is rottenly ungrateful of me," said the Englishman. "I've

certainly involved you now!"

"It's all right; I'm enjoying it! Now, Halkett, their car is badly

mired. There is another gate to that hedge a few hundred yards below.

If you'll just lay those planks in the cart, we'll drive along the hard

ground here and make another bridge below."

Halkett picked up the wet and muddy planks, one by one, and placed them

crossways in the cart. Then, at a nod from Warner, he climbed up and

the cart started slowly south, winding cautiously in and out among the

bushes.

When they had driven a little distance, the men in the car across the

brook caught sight of them; the driver left his wheel and sprang out;

and from either door of the tonneau the three other men followed,

revolvers lifted. There was no shouting; not a word spoken; not a sound

except the hard, dry crack of the pistols.

"I don't know," said Warner coolly, "whether this horse will stand our

fire, but if they cross the stream we'll have to begin shooting....

We'd better begin now anyway, I think." He drew rein, turned in his

seat, and fired two shots in quick succession. The horse started, and,

instantly checked, stood trembling but behaving well enough.

Another shot from Halkett brought the running men to a halt. Warner

drove on immediately; three of the men started to follow on a run, but

half a dozen rapid shots brought them to a dead stop again. And again

the dogcart jolted slowly forward.

One of the men made a furious gesture, turned, and ran back to the

mud-stalled car; two of the others followed to aid him to extricate the

machine; the fourth man, skulking along the stream, continued to advance

as the dogcart drove on.

Warner, driving carefully, shoved with his foot a box of clips toward

the dashboard; Halkett reloaded both automatics. Presently the cart

turned east, descending the hard slope toward the stream again; and the

man who had followed them along the swampy brook immediately opened

fire.

Halkett and Warner sprang out; the former shouldered the planks and ran

forward; the latter, holding his nervous horse by the head, fired at the

man among the reeds as he advanced toward the stream.

It seemed odd that so many bullets could fly and hit nothing; Halkett

heard them whining over his head; the horse heard them too and

threatened to become unmanageable. Far up the stream the three other

men were laboring frantically to disengage the grey automobile; the man

across the creek, routed out of the reeds by the stream of bullets

directed at him, was running now to get out of range. Evidently his

automatic was empty, for it merely swung in his hand as he ran.

But what occupied Warner was the course the man was taking, straight for

the lower gate in the hedge.

"Jump in!" he called to Halkett. "We can't wait for the other planks!"

The Englishman swung up beside him; the whip whistled and the horse, now

thoroughly frightened, bounded forward down the slope and took the

improvised bridge at a single leap. For one moment it looked like a

general smash, but the cart stood it, and, after a perilous second,

righted itself.

Straight at the closed gate drove Warner, whipping his horse into a dead

run; crashed through the flimsy pickets, slashed mercilessly with his

whip at the man who pluckily stripped off his coat and strove to make

the horse swerve into the hedge, as a toreador waves his cloak at a

charging bull.

Halkett could have shot the man; but he merely turned his weapon on him

as they dashed out into the highroad once more, and tore away due south

through the rose and golden glory of the sunset.

The horse ran a flat mile before Warner chose to ease him down; the

summer wind whistled in their ears; the last glow faded from the

purpling zenith; the crimson streak on the river surface, which had run

parallel on their left like level and jagged lightning, glimmered to a

pallid ochre tint; and the flying mist of trees and bushes which had

fled past like an endless rush of phantoms now took shape and substance

once more above the rising veil of river mist.

Warner's tense features were flushed with excitement. As he gradually

eased in his horse he was smiling.

"Well, what do you know about this performance of ours, Halkett?" he

inquired rather breathlessly. "Can you beat it in the movies?"

"I'm wondering what I've let you in for," said the Englishman very

seriously.

"I'll tell you," laughed Warner; "you've let me in for a last glimpse of

my youth--the days when everything went and every chance for mischief

was gratefully seized--the days when I was a subject of the only real

democracy on earth--the Latin Quarter--the days that dawn no more,

Halkett. This is the last gleam from their afterglow. _Nosce tempus_!

But the sun has set at last, Halkett, and the last haymaker is going

home."

"It would not have been very amusing if one of those bullets had knocked

you off your seat," remarked Halkett.

"But they didn't, old chap!" returned Warner heartily. "It was a good

mix-up--exciting, harmless, and beneficial. I feel years younger.

Respectability is a good, warm coat for the winter of life; but one

feels its weight in Indian summer."

Halkett smiled but shook his head:

"No good hunting trouble. You've only to turn around any time to find

it sniffing in your tracks."

"You don't understand. For years I've worked very steadily, very

seriously. I've painted, studied, read; I've made a living by selling

some pictures, by royalties on the reproduction of pictures, by teaching

a summer class of girls. After a while, you know, one goes stale with

respectability. I went out to the East and saw the Balkan fighting. It

helped some. I made some sketches last year in Mexico. That helped.

"But there's an exhilaration about lawbreaking--or in aiding and

abetting a lawbreaker--that has the rest beaten to a batter. Today's

misdeeds mean a new lease of life to me, Halkett."

The Englishman laughed. He was still cradling the two automatics on his

knees; now, with a careless glance behind him, he leaned forward and

replaced them in their respective holsters.

"For a rather celebrated and weighty member of the social structure," he

remarked, "there is a good deal of the boy left in you."

"When that dies in a man," returned Warner lightly, "creative and

constructive work end. The child who built with blocks, the youth who

built airier castles, is truly dead. And so is the man he has become."

"Do you think so?"

"I know it. The same intellectual and physical restlessness drives one

to create and construct, which, as a boy, drove one into active and

constructive mischief. When the day dawns wherein creating no longer

appeals to me, then I am old indeed, Halkett, and the overcoat of

respectability will suit me the year round.... I'm very glad that I

have found it oppressive this July day. By the way, what day does it

happen to be?"

Halkett said:

"It happens to be the last day of July. I have an idea that several

billion other people are destined to remember these last few days of

July, 1914, as long as they live."

"Why?" inquired the American curiously.

"Because, within these last few days, Austria has declared war on

Servia, Russia has already ordered partial mobilization, Germany has

sent her an ultimatum, and will back it up tomorrow."

"What! How do you know?"

"You don't mean to ask me that, do you?" said Halkett pleasantly.

"No, of course not----" Warner gazed straight ahead of him as he drove;

his altered features had become gravely expressionless. After a moment

he said:

"I can't comprehend it. Servia had agreed to everything

demanded--except that one item which she offered to arbitrate. I can't

understand it."

Halkett said calmly:

"It is not difficult to understand. A telegram has been suppressed--the

only telegram which could now prevent war." He removed his straw hat,

took from the lining a strip of semi-transparent paper, and read aloud

the minute handwriting:

"The German government has published several telegrams which the Emperor

of Russia exchanged with Emperor William. Among these telegrams,

nevertheless, is one which was not published--a dispatch from His

Russian Majesty, dated July 29, 1914, containing a proposition to submit

the Austro-Servian conflict to The Hague Tribunal.

"This has an appearance of a desire in Germany to pass over in silence

the attempt to prevent the approaching collision. In view of this, the

Minister of Foreign Affairs is authorized to publish the telegram

mentioned, of which this is the text:

"'Thanks for your conciliatory and friendly telegram. Inasmuch as the

official message presented today by your ambassador to my minister was

conveyed in a very different tone, I beg you to explain this divergency.

It would be right to give over the Austro-Servian problem to The Hague

Conference. I trust in your wisdom and friendship.'"

"Where did you get that?" asked Warner bluntly.

"This morning at the Boule d'Argent. A friend was kind enough to leave

it for me in a note," he added blandly.

"Do you believe it to be authentic?"

"Unfortunately, I can not question its truth."

"You think that the German government----"

"Without any doubt at all, Warner. For her The Day is about to dawn at

last. Her Joshua has halted the course of the sun long enough to suit

himself. It is scheduled to rise tomorrow."

"Do you mean war?"

"I do."

"Where?"

"Well, here, in France--to mention one place."

"In _France_!"

"Surely, _surely_!"

"Invasion?"

"Exactly."

"From which way?"

Halkett shrugged:

"Does anybody now believe it will come by way of the Barrier Forts? The

human race never has been partial to cross-country traveling; only ants

prefer it."

"You think it will come by the flank--through Belgium?"

"Ask yourself, Warner. Is there an easier way for it to come?"

"But the treaties?"

"_Nulla salus bello; necessitas no habet legem._"

"Nothing dishonorable is ever necessary."

"Ah! If nations could only agree upon the definition of that word

'honor'! There'd be fewer wars, my friend."

"You think, if France follows Russia's example and mobilizes, that

Germany will strike through Belgium?"

"I'm sure of it."

"What about England, then?" asked Warner bluntly.

But Halkett remained silent; and he did not repeat the question.

"After all," he said, presently, "this entire business is incredible.

Diplomacy will find a way out of it." And, after a moment's silence:

"You don't think so?"

"No."

Presently Halkett turned and looked back through the gathering dusk.

"I wonder," he said, "whether they'll get their car out tonight?"

"They'll have to go back to Ausone for aid," said Warner.

"Do you still mean to put me up at Sais?"

"Certainly. You don't expect your friends back there to assault the

inn, do you?"

"No," said Halkett, laughing. "They don't do things that way just yet."

Warner snapped his whip, caught the curling lash, let it free, twirled

it, and, snapped it again, whistling cheerfully a gay air from his

student days--a tune he had not thought of before in years.

"I believe," he said, frankly hopeful, "that you and I are going to have

another little party with those fellows before this matter is ended."

"I'm sure of it," said Halkett quietly.

A few moments later Warner, still whistling his joyous air, pointed

toward a cluster of tiny lights far ahead in the dark valley.

"Sais," he said; and resumed his song blithely:

"Gai, gai, mariez-vous!

C'est un usage

Fort sage.

Gai, gai, mariez-vous,

Le mariage est si doux!--"

"Like a bird it is!" he added ironically.

"By the way, you're _not_ married, are you?" inquired Halkett uneasily.

"Oh, Lord! No! Why the unmerited suspicion?"

"Nothing much. I just thought that after getting you into this scrape I

shouldn't dare face your wife."

Then they both laughed heartily. They were already on excellent terms.

Already acquaintance was becoming an unembarrassed friendship.

Warner flourished his whip and continued to laugh:

"I have no serious use for women. To me the normal and healthy woman is

as naive as the domestic and blameless cat, whose first ambition is for

a mate, whose second is to be permanently and agreeably protected, and

whose ultimate aim is to acquire a warm basket by the fireside and fill

it full of kittens! ... No; I'm not married. Don't worry, Halkett."

He whistled another bar of his lively song:

"Women? Ha! By the way, I've a bunch of them here in Sais, all

painting away like the devil and all, no doubt laying plans for that

fireside basket. It's the only thing a woman ever really thinks about,

no matter what else she pretends to be busy with. I suppose it's

natural; also, it's natural for some men to shy wide of such things.

I'm one of those men. So, Halkett, as long as you live, you need never

be afraid of offending any wife of mine!"

"Your sentiments," said Halkett, mockingly serious, "merely reveal

another bond between us. I thank God frequently that I am a bachelor."

"Good," said Warner with emphasis. And he chanted gayly, as he drove,

"Gai, gai, marions-nous--" in a very agreeable baritone voice, while the

lights of Sais grew nearer and brighter among the trees below.

"I never saw a girl worth the loss of my liberty," he remarked. "Did

you, Halkett? And," he continued, "to be tied up to a mentally

deficient appendage with only inferior intellectual resources, and no

business or professional occupation--to be tied fast to something that

sits about to be entertained, and that does nothing except nourish

itself and clothe itself, and have babies!--It's unthinkable, isn't it?"

"It's pretty awful.... Of course if a woman came along who combined

looks and intellect and professional self-sufficiency----"

"You don't find them combined. Take a slant at my class. That's the

only sort who even pretend to anything except vacuous idleness. There

are no Portias, Halkett. There never were. If there were, I'd take a

chance myself, I think. But a man who marries the young girl of today

has on his hands an utterly useless incubus. No wonder he sometimes

makes experiments elsewhere. No wonder he becomes a rainbow chaser. But

he's like a caged squirrel in a wheel; the more he runs around looking

for consolation the less progress he makes.

"No, Halkett, this whole marriage business is a pitiable fizzle. Until

both parties to a marriage contract are financially independent,

intellectually self-sufficient, and properly equipped to earn their own

livings by a business or a trade or a profession--and until, if a

mistake has been made, escape from an ignoble partnership is made

legally easy--marriage will remain the sickly, sentimental, pious fraud

which a combination of ignorance, superstition, custom, and orthodoxy

have made it.

"I'm rather eloquent on marriage, don't you think so?"

"Superbly!" said Halkett, laughing. "But, do you know, Warner, your

very eloquence betrays the fact that you have thought as much about it

as the unfortunate sex you have so eloquently indicted."

"What's that?" demanded Warner wrathfully.

"I'm sorry to say it, but you are exactly the sort of man to fall with a

tremendous flop."

"If ever I fall----"

"You fell temporarily this afternoon."

"With that painted, grey-eyed----"

"Certainly, with the girl Philippa. Come, old chap, you were out with

her a long while! What did you two talk about? Love?"

"No, you idiot----"

"You didn't even mention the word 'love'? Be honest, old chap!"

Warner began to speak, checked himself.

"Didn't you or she even mention the subject?" persisted Halkett with

malicious delight.

But Warner was too angry to speak, and the Englishman's laughter rang

out boyishly under the stars. To look at them one would scarcely believe

they had been a target for bullets within the hour.

"You don't suppose," began Warner, "that----"

"No, no!" cried Halkett. "--Not with that girl. I'm merely proving my

point. You're too eloquent concerning women not to have spent a good

deal of time in speculating about them. You even speculated concerning

Philippa. The man who mourns the scarcity of Portias wouldn't be likely

to care for one if he met her. You're just the man to fall in love with

everything you denounce in a girl. And I have no doubt I shall live to

witness that sorrowful spectacle."

Warner had to laugh.

"You are rather a terrifying psychologist," he said. "You almost make me

believe I have a streak of romance in me."

"Oh, we all have that, Warner. We call it by other names--cleverness,

logic, astuteness, intelligence--but we all have it in us, and it is

revealed in every man who marries a woman for love.... Believe me, no

normal man ever lived who was not, at some brief moment in his life, in

love with some woman. Maybe he ignored it and it never came again;

maybe he strangled it and went on about more serious business; maybe it

died a natural but early death. But once, before he died, he must have

had a faint, brief glimpse of it. And that was the naissance of the

latent germ of romance in him--ephemeral, perhaps, but inevitably to be

born before it died."

Warner waved his whip and snapped it maliciously:

"So you have been in love, have you?"

"Why? Because I, also, am suspiciously eloquent?"

"That's the reason--according to you."

Halkett smiled slightly.

"Perhaps I have been," he said.... "Hello! Is this your inn?" as they

drew up before the lighted windows of a two-story building standing

close to the left-hand edge of the highway, under the stars.

"Here we are at the Golden Peach," nodded Warner, as the door opened and

a smiling peasant lad came out with a: "Bon soir, Monsieur Warner! Bon

soir, messieurs!" And he took the horse's head while they descended.

That night, lying awake on his bed in the Inn of the Golden Peach,

Halkett heard the heavy rush of a southbound automobile passing under

his window with the speed of an express train.

And he wondered whether the spongy morass by the little brook still held

the long, grey touring car imprisoned.

He got up, went to his window and leaned out. Far away down the road

the tail lamps of the machine twinkled, dwindled to sparks, and were

engulfed in the invisible.

"More trouble south of me," he thought. But he returned to his bed and

lay there, tranquil in the knowledge that when he started south alone on

the morrow the envelope would not be on his person.

After a while he rose again, walked to the door connecting his room with

Warner's, and opened it cautiously.

"I'm awake," said Warner in a low voice.

"Did you hear that car?"

"Yes. Was it the one that chased us?"

"I only guess so. Listen, Warner! When I go south tomorrow, what are

you going to do with that envelope until I send a man back for it?"

"I've thought it all out, old chap. I shall take one of my new

canvases, lay the envelope on it, cover envelope and canvas with a

quarter of an inch of Chinese White, and when the enamel is dry I shall

paint on it. By the way, did you do your telephoning to your

satisfaction?"

"Entirely, thank you."

"You got your man?"

"I did," said Halkett. "He's on his way here now. Good night. I'll

sleep like a fox, old chap!"

"Good night," said Warner cheerily, enamored with his invention for the

safety of the envelope, as well as with the entire adventure.

That night, while they both slept, far away southward, on a lonely road

in the Vosges, the car which had rushed by under their windows was now

drawn up on the edge of the road.

Four men sat in it, waiting.

Just as dawn broke, what they awaited came up out of the south--a far,

faint rattle announced it, growing rapidly louder; and a motor cyclist,

riding without lights, shot out of the grey obscurity, trailing a

comet's tail of dust.

Head-on he came, like a streak, caught sight suddenly of the motionless

car and of four men standing up in it, ducked and flattened out over his

handlebars as four revolvers poured forth streams of fire.

Motor cycle and rider swerved into the ditch with a crash; the latter,

swaying wide in his saddle, was hurled a hundred feet further through

the air, landing among the wild flowers on the bank above.

He was the man to whom Halkett had telephoned.

He seemed to be very young--an Englishman--with blood on his fair hair,

and his blue eyes partly open.

They searched him thoroughly; and when they could find nothing more they

lifted him between two of them; two others carried the wrecked motor

cycle out across the fields toward the slope of a wooded mountain.

After ten minutes or so, two of the men returned to the car, drew a

couple of short, intrenching spades from the tool box, and went away

again across the fields toward the misty woods.

A throstle in a thorn bush had been singing all the while.

*CHAPTER V*

Halkett had not slept well; all night long in the garden under his

window the nightingales had been very noisy. When he slept, sinister

dreams had assailed him; cocks crowed at sunrise, cowbells tinkled,

outside his drawn blinds a refreshed and garrulous world was awakening;

and the happy tumult awoke him, too.

He was bathed, shaved, and dressed, and downstairs before Warner awoke

at all; and he began to rove about the place which, by daylight, did not

look at all like what he had imagined it to be the night before.

The Inn of the Golden Peach was one of those cream-tinted stucco houses

built into and around a series of haphazard garden walls which inclosed

flower and fruit gardens, cow-barns and stables. Its roof and wall

copings were covered with red tiles, weather-faded to a salmon tint; two

incredible climbing rosebushes nearly covered the front with delicate,

salmon-pink blossoms, and, in the rear, flowers bloomed along

stone-edged borders--masses of white clove pinks, rockets, poppies,

heliotrope, reseda, portulaca, and pansies--a careless riot of color,

apparently, yet set with that instinctive good taste which seldom fails

in France and is common alike to aristocrat and peasant.

Beyond the strawberry beds were fruit trees, peach, cherry, plum, and

apricot--the cherries hanging ripe and deeply crimson among dark green

leaves, the apricots already golden, peaches and plums delicately

painted with a bloom which promised approaching maturity.

Everywhere the grass grew thick and intensely green, though it was not

very neatly kept; water ran out of a stone trough and made a dancing

little rivulet over a bed of artificially set stones among which grew

ferns. Beyond stood a trellised summerhouse, with iron tables and chairs

painted green.

On the edge of the watering trough, Halkett seated himself in the sun.

An immaculate tiger cat sat on the garden walk a few paces away,

polishing her countenance with the velvet side of one forepaw, and

occasionally polishing the paw with a delicate pink tongue.

Once or twice she looked at Halkett without any apparent interest; now

and then she glanced up with more interest at the side of the house

where, under the kitchen door, in a big basket-cage, a jay hopped about,

making a scuffling noise among his cracked maize and rye straw.

However, the cat proved entirely susceptible to flattery, responded

graciously to polite advances, and presently relapsed into a purring

doze on his knee.

It was very still in the garden, too early even for butterflies to be

abroad. The kitchen door remained closed; smoke had just begun to rise

from one chimney.

In the peaceful silence nothing stirred; there was no breeze, no sound

save the trickle of water among fern fronds.

Then, from nowhere apparently, into this golden tranquillity came a

nun--no, not a nun, but one of those Grey Daughters of St. Vincent de

Paul, who have "for their monastery the houses of the sick, for a cell a

hired room, for a cloister the city streets, for a veil modesty."

In her white _cornette_, or pointed coiffe, with its starched wings, her

snowy collarette, wide sleeves, grey apron, and grey-blue habit, she

became instantly the medieval incarnation which vitalized the old garden

and the ancient wall, so that the centuries they had witnessed were born

again there where their spirit had returned, clothed in the costume

which they had known so well.

The _soeur de charite_ had not seen Halkett; she passed lightly,

swiftly, along the flowering borders with scissors and ozier basket,

bending here to gather the white clove pinks, kneeling there to snip off

pansies.

And it was only when the grey cat leaped from Halkett's knees and

advanced toward the Sister of Charity with a little mew of recognition

that she turned, still kneeling, caught sight of Halkett, and remained

looking at him, one delicate white hand resting on the purring cat.

Halkett was on his feet, his hat under his arm, now, and he bade her

good-morning with that pleasant deference which marks such men

immediately for what they are.

She smiled faintly from the transparent shadow of her white _cornette_.

"Flowers are all so lovely," she said, "it is never easy for me to

choose. They are for my school, you know?"--with a slight rising

inflection. But evidently this young man did not know, so she added, "I

am Sister Eila," and smiled again, when it was apparent that he had

never heard of Sister Eila.

"I am English," he said, "--traveling through France on business. I

arrived last night to visit my friend, Mr. Warner. My name is Halkett."

She nodded and snipped a few more pansies.

"May I help you, Sister? If you don't mind telling me what flowers you

desire----"

"Merci, Monsieur. Pansies, if you please. The children see odd little

faces in their petals, and it amuses them."

Down on his knees beside the border, the grey cat seated between them,

Halkett picked pansies and laid them in rows in her ozier basket.

"Of course," he said, "your school is a charity school."

"For the poor, of course. My children are those of the quarrymen."

"You do not teach them alone?"

"Oh, no. Sister Felicite teaches with me. And then, of course, we are

together when, during the vacation, hospital service is required of us."

"Is there a quarry hospital?"

"Yes, Monsieur. It is more like an ambulance where first aid is given.

The hospital at Ausone takes our sick." Still kneeling, she looked up

at the slender fruit trees beyond, and the sunlight fell full on the

most exquisite young face that Halkett had ever seen. Whether it was her

unexpected beauty that gave him a little shock, or the sudden idea that

in her features there was a haunting resemblance to somebody he had

seen, perhaps met, he did not know.

Sometimes in the first glimpse of a face we recognize the living

substance of her to whom we have aspired, and of whom we have dreamed.

But she has never existed except in the heart which created her until we

unconsciously endow another with all we dreamed she was.

He went on gathering flowers to fill her basket.

"I wonder," she said musingly, "whether any of those apricots are ripe.

One of my children is convalescent, and she really needs a little fresh

fruit."

So Halkett rose, threaded his way through the flowers, and looked

carefully among the branches for a ripe apricot. He found two, and

Sister Eila laid them together in the corner of her basket, which was

now full.

He walked with her to the garden door, which was set solidly under an

arch in the wall. There she looked up, smiling, as she said in English:

"Is not our country of Sais very lovely, Mr. Halkett?"

"Yes, indeed, it is," he replied, also smiling in his surprise. "But,

Sister Eila, you are English, are you not?"

"Irish--but brought up in France." ... Her face grew graver; she said

very quietly: "Is it true there is any danger of war? The children are

talking; it is evident that the quarrymen must be discussing such things

among themselves. I thought I'd ask you----"

"I'm afraid," he said, "that there is some slight chance of war,

Sister."

"Here in France?"

"Yes--here."

"It is Germany, of course?"

"Yes, the menace comes from--" he cast a quick glance toward the east,

"--from over there.... Perhaps diplomacy may regulate the affair. It is

always best to hope."

"Yes, it is best always--to hope," she said serenely.... "Thank you, Mr.

Halkett. Mr. Warner is a friend of mine. Perhaps you may have time to

visit our school with him."

"I'll come," said Halkett.

She smiled and nodded; he opened the heavy green door for her, and

Sister Eila went out of the golden world of legend, leaving the flowers

and young trees very still behind her.

*CHAPTER VI*

Warner discovered him there in the garden, seated once more on the stone

trough, the grey cat dozing on his knees.

"Hello, old chap!" he said cheerfully. "Did you sleep?"

Halkett gave him a pleasant, absent-minded glance:

"Not very well, thanks."

"Nor I. Those damn nightingales kept me awake. Has your man arrived?"

"Not yet. I don't quite understand why."

Warner sauntered up and caressed the cat.

"Well, Ariadne, how goes it with you?" he inquired, gently rubbing her

dainty ears, an attention enthusiastically appreciated, judging by the

increased purring.

"Ariadne, eh?" inquired Halkett.

"Yes--her lover forsook her--although she doesn't seem to mind as much

as the original lady did. No doubt she knows there's a Bacchus

somewhere on his way to console her."

The other nodded in his pleasant, absent-minded fashion. After a moment

he said:

"I've been talking to a Sister of Charity here in the garden."

"Sister Felicite?"

"No; Sister Eila."

"Isn't she the prettiest thing!" exclaimed Warner. "And she's as good as

she is beautiful. We're excellent friends, Sister Eila and I. I'll

take you over to her school after breakfast."

"It's the Grey Sisterhood, isn't it?"

"St. Vincent de Paul's Filles de la Charite; not the Grey Nuns, you

know."

"I supposed not. Of course these nuns are not cloistered."

"They are not even nuns. They don't take perpetual vows."

Halkett looked up quickly.

"What!" he demanded.

"No. The vows of these Sisters of Charity are simple vows. They renew

them annually. Still, it is a strict order. Their novitiate is five

years' probation."

"Oh! I supposed----" He remained silent, his thoughtful gaze fixed on

space.

"Yes, our brave gentle Sisters of Charity remain probationers for five

years, and then every year they renew their vows of chastity, poverty,

and obedience. The annual vows are taken some time in March, I believe.

They have no cloister, you know, other than a room in some poor street

near the school or hospital where they work. Did you ever hear the

wonderful story of their Order?"

"No."

So Warner sketched for him the stainless history of a true saint, and of

the Filles de St. Vincent de Paul through the centuries of their

existence; and Halkett listened unstirring, his handsome head bent, his

hand resting motionless on Ariadne's head.

A few minutes later a fresh-faced peasant girl, in scarlet bodice and

velvet-slashed black skirts, came out into the garden bearing a tray

with newly baked rolls, new butter, and cafe-au-lait for two. She

placed it on the iron table in the little summerhouse, curtseyed to the

two young men, exchanged a gay greeting with Warner, and trotted off

again in her _chaussons_--the feminine, wholesome, and admirable symbol

of all that is fascinating in the daughters of France.

Halkett placed Ariadne on the grass, rose, and followed Warner to the

arbor; Ariadne tagged after them, making gentle but pleased remarks.

There was an extra saucer, which Warner filled with milk and set before

the cat.

"You know," he said to Halkett, "I like to eat by myself--or with some

man. So I have my meals served out here, or in the tap room when it

rains. The Harem feeds itself in the dining-room----"

"The _what_?"

"My class, I mean. An irreverent friend of mine in Paris dubbed it 'the

Harem,' and the title stuck--partly, I suppose, because of its

outrageous absurdity, partly because it's a terse and convenient title."

"_They_ don't call it that, do they?"

"I should say not! And I hope they don't know that others do. Anyway,

the Harem dawdles over its meals and talks art talk at the long table

where Madame Arlon--the Patronne--presides. You'll have to meet them."

"Do you criticise your--Harem--this morning?" inquired Halkett,

laughing.

"Yes; I give them their daily pabulum. Do you want to come about with

me and see how it's done? After the distribution of pap I usually pitch

my own umbrella somewhere away from their vicinity and make an hour's

sketch. After that I paint seriously for the remainder of the day. But

I'll take you over to Sister Eila's school this morning if you like."

He fished out a black caporal cigarette and scratched a match.

Halkett, his cigarette already lighted, lounged sideways on the green

iron chair, his preoccupied gaze fixed on Ariadne.

"Annual vows," he said, "mean, of course, that a Sister renews such vows

voluntarily every year; does it not, Warner?"

"Yes."

"They usually do renew their vows, I suppose."

"Almost always, I believe."

"But--a Sister of Charity _could_ return to the--the world, if she so

desired?"

"It could be done, but it seldom is, I understand. The order is an

admirable one; a very wonderful order, Halkett. They are careful about

admitting their novices, but what they regard as qualifications might

not be so considered in a cloistered order like the Ursalines. The

novitiate is five years, I believe; except for the head of the order in

Paris, no grades and no ranks exist; all Sisters are alike and on the

same level." He smiled. "If anything could ever convert me to

Catholicism, I think it might be this order and the man who founded it,

Saint Vincent de Paul, wisest and best of all who have ever tried to

follow Christ."

Ariadne had evidently centered her gentle affections upon the new

Englishman; she trotted at his heels as he sauntered about in the

garden; she showed off for his benefit, playfully patting a grasshopper

into flight, frisking up trees only to cling for a moment, ears

flattened, and slide back to earth again; leaping high after lazy white

butterflies which hovered over the heliotrope, but always returning to

tag after Halkett where he roamed about, a burnt-out cigarette between

his fingers, his eyes dreaming, lost in speculations beyond the ken of

any cat.

The Harem came trooping into the garden, presently, shepherded by

Warner. They all carried full field kit--folding easels, stools, and

umbrellas slung upon their several and feminine backs; a pair of clamped

canvases in one hand, color-box in the other.

Halkett was presented to them all. There was Miss Alameda Golden, from

California, large, brightly colored, and breezy; there was Miss Mary

Davis, mouse-tinted, low-voiced, who originated in Brooklyn; there was

Miss Jane Post, of Chicago, restlessly intense and intellectually

curious concerning all mundane phenomena, from the origin of

cafe-au-lait to the origin of species; and there was Miss Nancy Lane, of

New York, a dark-eyed opportunist and an observer of man--sometimes

individually, always collectively. And there was Miss Peggy Brooks,

cosmopolitan, sister of Madame de Moidrey who lived in a big house among

the hills across the meadows--the Chateau des Oiseaux, prettily named

because the protection and encouragement of little birds had been the

immemorial custom of its lordly proprietors.

And so the Harem, fully equipped to wrestle with the giant, Art, filed

out of the quiet garden and across the meadows by the little river

Recollette, where were haystacks, freshly erected and fragrant, which

very unusual subject they had unanimously chosen for their morning's

crime.

To perpetrate it upon canvas they pitched their white umbrellas, tripod

easels, and sketching stools; then each maiden, taking a determined grip

upon her charcoal, squinted, so to speak, in chorus at the hapless

haystacks. And the giant, Art, trembled in the seclusion of the

_ewigkeit_.

Warner regarded them gloomily; Halkett, who had disinterred a pipe from

his pockets, stood silently beside him, loading it.

"They'll paint this morning, and after luncheon," said Warner. "After

dinner they all get into an omnibus and drive to Ausone to remain

overnight, and spend tomorrow in street sketching. I insist on their

doing this once every month. When they return with their sketches, I

give them a general criticism."

"Will these young ladies ever really amount to anything?" inquired

Halkett.

"Probably never. Europe, the British Isles, and the United States are

dotted all over with similar and feminine groups attempting haystacks.

The sum-total of physical energy thus expended must be enormous--like

the horsepower represented by Niagara. But it creates no ripple upon the

intellectual serenity of the thinking world. God alone knows why women

paint haystacks. I do my best to switch them toward other phenomena."

The rural postman on his bicycle, wearing _kepi_ and blue blouse, came

pedaling along the highway. When he saw Warner he saluted and got off

his wheel.

"Letters, Grandin?"

"Two, Monsieur Warner."

Warner took them.

"Eh, bien?" he inquired, lowering his voice; "et la guerre?"

"Monsieur Warner, the affair is becoming very serious."

"What is the talk in Ausone?"

"People are calm--too calm. A little noise, now, a little

gesticulation, and the affair would seem less ominous to me--like the

Algeciras matter and the Schnaeble incident before that--Monsieur may

remember?"

"I know. It is like the hush before a tempest. The world is too still,

the sunlight too perfect."

"There seems to me," said the little postman, "a curious unreality about

yesterday and today--something in the cloudless peace overhead that

troubles men."

Being no more and no less poet than are all French peasants, this

analysis sufficed him. He touched his kepi; the young men lifted their

hats, and the postman pedaled away down the spotless military road.

Warner glanced at the envelope in his hand; Halkett looked at it, too.

It was addressed in red ink.

"It's for me, old chap," said the Englishman.

The other glanced up, surprised.

"Are you sure?"

"Quite--if you don't mind trusting me."

Warner laughed and handed him the letter.

"It's addressed very plainly to me," he said. "You've got your nerve

with you, Halkett."

"I have to keep it about me, old chap."

"No doubt. And still I don't see----"

"It's very simple. I sent two telephone messages last night. One

letter should have arrived. It has not! The man who wrote this letter

must have gone miles last night on a motor cycle to mail it so that your

little postman should hand it to me this morning----"

"Intriguer!" interrupted Warner, still laughing. "He handed it to _me_!

I see you're going to get me in Dutch before I'm rid of you."

"I don't comprehend your Yankee slang," retorted Halkett with a slight

grin, "so if you don't mind I'll sit here on the grass and read my

letter. Go on and criticize your Harem. But before you go, lend me a

pencil. They stole even my pencil in the Cabaret de Biribi."

Warner, amused, handed him a pencil and a pad, and strolled away toward

the industrious Harem to see what they might be perpetrating.

Halkett seated himself on the grass where, if he chose to glance up, he

had a clear view all about him. Then he opened his letter.

It was rather an odd sort of letter. It began:

DEAR GREEN:

A red wagon, red seat, orange rumble, red mudguards, blue

steering-wheel, red bumpers, blue wheels, red engines, red varnish, red

open body, red machinery, red all over, in fact, except where it

isn't--is for sale.

So much of this somewhat extraordinary letter Halkett very carefully and

slowly perused; then, still studying this first paragraph intently, he

wrote down on his pad the following letters in the following sequence,

numbering each letter underneath:

R O Y G B I V S W A

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0

The letters represented, up to and including the letter V, the colors of

the solar spectrum in their proper sequence: red, orange, yellow, green,

blue, indigo, and violet. The letter S, which followed the letter V,

stood for _schwarz_, which in German means black. The letter W stood

for weiss, white; the letter A for _argent_. Every letter, therefore,

represented some color or metallic luster; and these, in turn,

represented numbers.

And now Halkett took the opening salutation in the first paragraph of

his letter--"Dear Green." The color green being numbered 4, he found

that the fourth letter in the word "dear" was the letter R. This he

wrote down on his pad.

Then he took the next few words: "A red wagon, red seat, orange rumble,

red----" etc.

The first and only letter in the word "A" he wrote down. The next word

after "wagon" was "red." The color red indicated the figure 1. So he

next wrote down the first letter of the word "wagon," which is W.

Then came the word "seat." The word "orange" followed it. The color

orange indicated number 2 in the spectrum sequence. So he found that in

the word "seat" the letter E was the second letter. This he wrote.

Very carefully and methodically he proceeded in this manner with the

first paragraph of the letter, as far as the words "all over," but not

including them or any of the words in the first paragraph which followed

them.

He had, therefore, for his first paragraph, this sequence of letters:

RAWERUSEWEVOM.

Beginning with the last letter, M, he wrote the letters again, reversing

their sequence; and he had:

MOVEWESUREWAR.

These, with commas, he easily separated into four words: "Move," "we,"

"sure," and "war." Then, again reversing the sequence of the words, he

had two distinct sentences of two words each before him:

WAR SURE! WE MOVE!

Always working with the numbered color key before him, taking his letter

paragraph by paragraph, he had as a final remainder the following series

of letters:

EDIHUOYERADELIARTTIAWDROWOTDEECORPSIALAC.

Reversing these, checking off the separate words, and then reversing the

entire sequence of words, he had as the complete translation of his

letter, including the first paragraph, the following information and

admonition:

"War sure. We move. Hide. You are trailed. Wait word to proceed

Calais."

"War sure!" That was easily understood. "We move." That meant England

was already mobilizing on land and sea. And the remainder became plain

enough; he must stay very quietly where he was until further

instructions arrived.

He read through his notes and his letter once more, then twisted letter,

envelope, and penciled memoranda into a paper spiral, set fire to it

with a match, and leisurely lighted his pipe with it.

When the flame of the burning paper scorched his fingers, he laid it

carefully on the grass, where it was presently consumed. The charred

remnants he ground to dust under his heel as he got up and brushed a

spear or two of hay from his clothing.

Then he looked at the Harem, all busily committing felony with brush and

colors; and, as he gazed upon them, he politely stifled a yawn.

*CHAPTER VII*

Warner, conscientious but not hopeful, circulated among the easels of

the Harem. Halkett strolled at his heels.

Stopping in front of Alameda Golden's large canvas, which was all

splashed with primary and aggressive colors, he gazed, uncomforted, upon

what she had wrought there. After a few moments he said very patiently:

"You should not use a larger canvas than I have recommended to the

class. Mere size is not necessarily a synonym for distinction, nor does

artistic strength depend upon the muscular application of crude paint. A

considerable majority of our countrymen comprehend only what is large,

gaudy, and garrulous. Bulk and noise only can command their attention.

On the other hand, only what is weak, vague, and incoherent appeals to

the precious--the incapables and eccentrics among us. But there is a

sane and healthy majority: enroll yourself there, Miss Golden!

"Be honest, reticent, and modest. If you have anything to say in paint,

say it without self-consciousness, frankly, but not aggressively.

Behave on canvas as you would bear yourself in the world at large, with

freedom but with dignity, with sincerity governed by that intelligent

consideration for truth which permits realism and idealism, both of

which are founded upon fact."

Miss Golden pouted:

"But I _see_ haystacks this way!" she insisted. "I see them in large

and brilliant impressions. To me nothing looks like what it is.

Haystacks appear this way to my eyes!"

"My dear child, then paint them that way. But the popular impression

will persist that you have painted the battle of Trafalgar."

Miss Golden wriggled on her camp chair.

"Everything," she explained, "is one monstrous, gaudy, and brutal

impression to me. I see a million colors in everything and very little

shape to anything. I see only cosmic vigor; and I paint it with a punch.

Can't you see all those colors in those haystacks? To me they resemble

gigantic explosions of glorious color. And really, Mr. Warner, if I am

to be true to myself, I must paint them as I see them."

Warner, horribly discouraged, talked sanely to her for a while, then

with a pleasant nod he passed to the next easel, remarking to Halkett

under his breath:

"It's a case for a pathologist, not for a painter."

And so for an hour he prowled about among the Harem, ministering to

neurotics, inspiring the sluggish, calming despair, gently discouraging

self-complacency.

"Always," he said, "we must remain students, because there is no such

thing as mastery in any art. If ever we believe we have attained

mastery, then our progress ceases; and we do not even remain where we

are; we retrograde--and swiftly, too.

"The life work of the so-called 'master' is passed only in solving newer

problems. There is no end to the problems, there is an end only to our

lives.

"Look at the matter in that way, not as a race toward an attainable

goal, nor as an eternally hopeless effort in a treadmill; but as a sane

and sure and intelligent progress from one wonder-chamber to a chamber

still more wonderful--locked rooms which contain miracles, and which

open only when we find the various keys which fit their locks....

"That is all for this morning, young ladies."

He lifted his hat, turned, and strolled away across the meadow, Halkett

at his side.

"Some lecture!" he commented with a faint grin.

"It's sound," said Halkett.

"I do the best I can with them. One might suppose I know how to paint,

by the way I pitch into those poor girls. Yet, I myself never pick up a

brush and face my canvas but terror seizes me, and my own ignorance of

all I ought to know scares me almost to death. It's not modesty; I can

paint as well as many, better than many. But, oh, the long, long way

there is to travel! The stars are very far away, Halkett."

He pitched his easel, secured a canvas, took a freshly-set palette and

brushes from his color-box, and, still standing, went rapidly about his

business, which was to sketch in an impression of what lay before him.

Halkett, watching him over his shoulder, saw the little river begin to

glimmer on the canvas, saw a tender golden light grow and spread,

bathing distant hills; saw the pale azure of an arching sky faintly

tinting with reflections the delicate green of herbage still powdered

with the morning dew.

"This is merely a note," remarked Warner, painting away leisurely but

steadily. "Some day I may pose my models somewhere outdoors under

similar weather conditions; and you may see dragoons in their saddles,

carbines poised, the sunlight enveloping horses and men--or perhaps a

line of infantry advancing in open order with shrapnel exploding in

their faces.... Death in the summer sunshine is the most terrifying of

tragedies.... I remember once after Lule Burgas---- Never mind, I

shan't spoil the peaceful beauty of such a morning.

"War? War _here_!--In this still meadow, bathed in the heavenly

fragrance of midsummer! ... Well, Halkett, the government of any nation

which _attacks_ another nation is criminal, and all the arguments of

church and state and diplomacy cannot change that hellish fact.

"There is only one right in any combat, only one side in any war. And

no reasoning under the sun can invest an aggressor with that right.

"He who first draws and strikes forestalls God's verdict."

Halkett said:

"How about your own wars?"

"Halkett, the United States is the only nation which ever entered a war

from purely sentimental reasons. It was so in the Revolution; it was so

in 1812, in the War of Secession, in Mexico, in the Cuban War.

"All our wars have been undertaken in response to armed aggression; all

were begun and carried on in defense of purely sentimental principles.

I do not say it because I am a Yankee, but our record is pretty clean,

so far, in a world which, since our birth, has accused us of ruthless

materialism."

He continued to paint for a while in silence; and when his color notes

were sufficiently complete for his purpose, and when the Harem had filed

before the canvas and had adoringly inspected it, Warner packed up his

kit, and, taking the wet canvas, walked with Halkett back to the Golden

Peach.

There Halkett was made acquainted with Madame Arlon, the stout, smiling

proprietress of the inn, who sturdily refused to believe that war was

possible, and who explained why to Halkett with animation while Warner

went indoors to deposit his sketches in his studio.

He returned presently, saying that he would take Halkett to Sister

Eila's school across the fields; so the two young men lighted their

pipes and strolled away together through the sunshine.

Eastward, far afield, the gay aprons and sunbonnets of the Harem still

dotted the distance with flecks of color; beyond, the Recollette

glimmered, and beyond that hazy hills rolled away southward toward the

Vosges country.

Halkett looked soberly into the misty east.

"It won't come from that direction," he said, half to himself.

Warner glanced up, understood, and sauntered on in silence.

"By the way," remarked the Englishman, "I shall stay here tonight."

"I'm very glad," returned Warner cordially.

"So am I, Warner. Ours is an agreeable--acquaintance."

"It amounts to a little more than that, doesn't it?"

"Yes. It's a friendship, I hope."

"I hope so."

After a moment he added laughingly:

"I've fixed up your bally envelope for you."

"How?"

"Covered it with a thick, glossy layer of Chinese white. I put in a

dryer. In a day or two I shall make a pretty little picture on it. And

nobody on earth could suspect that embedded under the paint and varnish

of my canvas your celebrated document reposes."

They took a highway to the left, narrow and tree-shaded.

"When do you get the newspapers here?" inquired Halkett.

"After lunch, usually. The _Petit Journal d'Ausone_ arrives then.

Nobody bothers with any Paris papers. But I think I shall subscribe,

now.... There's the school, just ahead."

It was a modern and very plain two-storied building of stone and white

stucco, covered with new red tiles. A few youthful vines were beginning

to climb gratefully toward the lower window sills; young linden trees

shaded it. A hum, like the low, incessant murmur of a hive, warned them

as they approached that the children were reciting in unison; and they

halted at the open door.

Inside the big, clean room, the furniture of which was a stove and a

score or more of desks, two dozen little girls, neatly but very poorly

dressed, stood beside their desks reciting. On a larger desk stood a

glass full of flowers which Halkett recognized; and beside this desk,

slenderly erect, he saw Sister Eila, facing the children, her white

hands linked behind her back.

Seated behind the same desk was another Sister--a buxom one with the

bright, clear coloring of a healthy peasant--more brilliant, even, for

the white wimple, collarette, and wide-winged headdress which seemed to

accent the almost riotous tint of physical health.

The childish singsong presently ceased; Sister Eila turned pensively,

took a step or two, lifted her eyes, and beheld Halkett and Warner at

the doorway.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Please come in, Messieurs. I have been wondering

whether Mr. Warner would bring you before luncheon.... Sister Felicite,

this is Monsieur Halkett, who so amiably aided me to gather my bouquet

this morning."

Sister Felicite became all animation and vigor; she was cordial to

Halkett, greeted Warner with the smiling confidence of long

acquaintance.

It lacked only a few minutes to noon, and so lessons were suspended, and

the children put through one or two drills for Halkett's benefit.

Out in the kitchen a good, nourishing broth was simmering for them, and

Sister Eila slipped away during the brief exhibition to prepare

twenty-four bowls and spoons and tartines for these ever-hungry little

children of the poor, orphaned for the most part, or deserted, or having

parents too poor to feed them.

At noon Sister Felicite dismissed the school; and the little girls

formed in line very demurely and filed off to the kitchen.

"What a delicious odor!" exclaimed Halkett, nose in the air.

Sister Felicite sniffed the soup.

"We do our best," she said. "The poor little things fatten here, God be

praised." And, to Warner, in her vigorous, alert manner: "What is all

this talk concerning war? The children prattle about it. They must

have heard such gossip among the quarry people."

Warner said:

"It begins to look rather serious, Sister."

"Is it Germany again?"

"I fear so."

Sister Felicite's pink cheeks flushed:

"Is it the noisy boaster who rules those Germans who would bring the

sword upon us again? Is there not enough of barbaric glory in his

Empire for him and his that he should invade the civilized world to seek

for more? It is a vile thing for any man, be he ruler or subject, to

add one featherweight to the crushing burden of the world's misery!"

"To declare war is the heaviest of all responsibilities," admitted

Warner.

"Is it already declared?"

"No. That is to say, Austria has declared war against Servia, Russia is

mobilizing, and Germany has warned her."

"Is that an excuse for anybody to attack France?"

"Russia is mobilizing, Sister," he repeated meaningly.

"What then?"

"France must follow."

"And then?"

Warner shrugged his shoulders.

Sister Eila came out, nodding to Sister Felicite, who usually presided

at the lunch hour: and the latter went away with Warner toward the

kitchen, still plying the American with questions. Sister Eila bent her

head, inhaled the perfume of the flowers on her desk, and then looked up

at Halkett.

"Don't you ever lunch?" he asked.

"Yes; I tasted the soup. You lunch at one at the inn."

"I suppose so. What a charming country this is--this little hamlet of

Sais! Such exquisite peace and stillness I have seldom known."

Sister Eila's eyes grew vague; she looked out through the sunny doorway

across the fields towards a range of low hills. The quarries were

there.

"It is a tranquil country," she said pensively, "but there is misery,

too. Life in the quarries is hard, and wages are not high."

"Mr. Warner tells me they are a hard lot, these quarrymen."

"There is intemperance among the quarrymen, and among the cement

workers, too: and there is roughness and violence--and crime, sometimes.

But it is a very hard _metier_, Mr. Halkett, and the lime dust blinds

and sears and incites a raging thirst. God knows there is some excuse

for the drunkenness there. We who are untempted must remain gentle in

our judgments."

"I could not imagine Sister Eila judging anybody harshly."

Sister Eila looked up and laughed:

"Oh, Mr. Halkett, I have confessed to impatience too many times to

believe that I could ever acquire patience. Only today I scolded our

children because they tore down a poster which had been pasted on the

public wall at the crossroad. I said to them very severely, 'It is a

sin to destroy what others have paid for to advertise their

merchandise.'"

"That was a terrible scolding," admitted Halkett, laughing.

"I'll show you the poster," volunteered Sister Eila, going over to her

desk. Raising the lid, she picked up and displayed an advertisement.

*CHAPTER VIII*

Halkett looked curiously at this specimen of a poster which was already

very familiar to him. The dead walls of northern and eastern France and

Belgium had been plastered with such advertisements for the last year or

two, extolling the Savon de Calypso. But what had recently interested

Halkett in these soap advertisements was that posters, apparently

exactly similar, appeared to differ considerably in detail when examined

minutely.

The picture in this advertisement represented, as always, the nymph,

Calypso, seated upon the grass, looking out over the sea where the sun

shone in a cloudless sky upon a fleet of Grecian ships which were

sailing away across the blue waves of the AEgean.

Where details varied was in the number of ships in the fleet, the number

and grouping of sails, sea birds flying, of waves, and of clouds--when

there were any of the latter--the number of little white or blue or pink

blossoms in the grass, the height of the sun above the horizon line and

the number and size of its rays.

There was always at least one ship--never more than a dozen; he had

counted twenty white blossoms on some posters; varying numbers on

others, of white, of blue, or of pink, but never less than three of any

one color. Sometimes there were no sea birds.

As for the sun, sometimes it hung well above the ocean, often its yellow

circle dipped into it, and then again only the rays spread fanlike above

the horizon line.

[Illustration: Savon de Calypso poster]

And concerning the nymph, her pose and costume did not seem to vary at

all in the various poster specimens which he had seen; the wind was

always blowing her red hair and white, transparent scarf; she always sat

gazing laughingly seaward, one hand resting on the grass, the other

clutching a cake of soap to her bosom.

Still examining the sheet of paper, he counted the white flowers

scattered over the grass around the seated nymph. There were _ten_ of

them.

"Sister Eila," he said carelessly, "how many kilometers is it to the

next town south of us? I mean by the military road."

"To Rosieres-sous-Bois?"

"Yes."

"About ten kilometers by the military road."

He nodded and counted the ships. There were three.

"Is there more than one road which runs to Rosieres-sous-Bois?" he

asked.

"Yes. One may go by this road, or cross the bridge by the quarries and

go by the river road, or there is still a better and shorter highway

which runs west of Sais."

"Then there are _three_ main roads to Rosieres-sous-Bois?"

"Yes. The road to the west is shorter. It is not more than seven miles

that way."

Halkett casually counted the sea gulls. Seven gulls were flying around

one of the ships; thirteen around another.

"And the river road, Sister?" he inquired.

"By the quarry bridge? Oh, that is longer--perhaps twelve or thirteen

kilometers."

"I see.... Rosieres-sous-Bois is not a garrison town?"

"No. There are only a few gendarmes there."

Halkett examined the picture attentively. The sun appeared to be about

three hours high above the horizon.

"The nearest military post must be about three hours' journey from

here," he ventured.

Sister Eila thought a moment, then nodded:

"Yes, about three hours. You mean the fort above the Pass of the

Falcons? That is the nearest."

He counted the rays of the sun. There were three long ones and two

short ones.

"I suppose there are three or four battalions garrisoned there," he

remarked.

"Three, I think. And a company of engineers and one company of Alpine

chasseurs."

All the time, with a detached air, the young Englishman was examining

the colored poster, searching it minutely for variations from other

posters of the same sort which he had recently investigated.

There remained in his mind little or no doubt that the number and

position of the groups of pointed wavelets signified something

important; that the number of sails set on the ships, which varied in

every poster, contained further information; that the sky, cloudless in

some posters, dotted with clouds in others, was destined to convey

topographical particulars to somebody.

These colored advertisements of a soap made in Cologne by Bauermann and

Company, and plastered over the landscape of Northern and Eastern

Belgium and France, concealed a wealth of secret information for anybody

who possessed the key to the messages so clearly and craftily expressed

in pictograph and cipher code.

The sinister significance of the sheet in his hand was becoming more

apparent every minute. He had made a study of these posters--was just

beginning to find them interesting, when he had been ordered to America.

Now, all his interest in them returned.

Sister Eila had seated herself at her desk, and, while he was still

examining the poster, she continued serenely to correct the pile of inky

copybooks.

He watched her for a while, where she bent above the scrawled pages, her

pen poised, her lovely face framed in the snowy wimple under the pale

shadow of her wide-winged coiffe.

"Sister Eila?"

She turned her head tranquilly.

"You are English, you tell me?"

"Irish." She smiled.

"It's the same. Tell me, have you had enough experience in your world

of duty and of unhappiness to know an honest man when you encounter

him?"

Sister Eila laid aside her pen and turned toward him.

"I don't think I understand," she said.

"I mean, could you make up your mind about--well--about such a man as I

am--merely by inspecting me and hearing me speak?"

Sister Eila laughed:

"I think I could very easily."

"Have you already done so?"

"Why, yes, I suppose so."

"Do you think I am honest enough to be trusted?"

Sister Eila laughed again, deliciously.

"Yes, I think so," she said.

He remained silent and his face, already grave, grew more serious.

Sister Eila's smile faded as she watched him. It was becoming very

plain to her that here was a man in trouble.

Silent there together in the cool stillness of the schoolroom, they

heard the distant clatter of little feet, the vigorous voice of command

from Sister Felicite; and a moment later a double file of chattering

children passed in the sunshine outside the window, led toward their

noonday playground by Sister Felicite accompanied by Warner.

"What is on your mind, Mr. Halkett?" asked Sister Eila, still watching

him.

"If I tell you," he said, "will you ask me no more than I offer to tell

you?"

She flushed:

"Naturally, Monsieur----"

"You don't quite understand, Sister. What I have to say I wish you to

write down for me in the form of a letter of information to the French

Government."

"You wish _me_ to write it?"

"Please. And that is what I mean. Naturally, you might ask me why I do

not write it myself.... Don't ask me, Sister.... If you really do

trust me."

He turned, met her gaze, saw two clear, sweet eyes unspoiled and

unsaddened by the wisdom she had learned in dark and wretched places;

saw in them only a little wonder, a faintly questioning surprise.

"What is your answer, Sister?" he asked.

"My answer is--I--I _do_ trust you.... What am I to write?"

She took a few loose leaves of paper from the desk, and sat looking at

him, pen lifted.

He said:

"Write to the chief of the general staff at the Ministry of War in

Paris."

And when she had properly addressed the personage in question, he

dictated his letter very slowly in English; and Sister Eila, her

expressionless young face bent above the letter paper, translated into

French as he dictated, and wrote down the exact meaning of every word he

uttered:

"Information has come to me that the advertisements of Bauermann and

Company, of Cologne, Prussia, which are posted everywhere throughout

Belgium and Northern and Eastern France, conceal military and

topographical details concerning the vicinity where these advertisements

are displayed.

"Such information could be of use only to a prowling spy or an invading

enemy.

"Therefore, acting upon the incomplete information offered me, I deem it

my duty to bring this matter to the notice of the Government.

"It would appear that:

"1st. Secret information is contained in the details of the picture

which embellishes this advertisement, a sample of which I inclose

herewith.

"2nd. These details vary in every poster. Presumably their number,

color, groupings, and general distribution constitute a secret code

which is calculated to convey information to the enemies of France.

"3rd. In the sample which is inclosed with this letter, the number of

ships probably represents the number of highways leading from Sais to

Rosieres-sous-Bois; the sea gulls flying above two of the ships give the

distance in kilometers; the ten white flowers give the distance by the

military road.

"The sun, in the picture, appears to be about three hours high above the

horizon; and it is _three hours'_ journey from here to the nearest

French fortified post, the Pass of the Falcons in the Vosges.

"The rays of the sun are five in number, three long ones and two short

ones; and there are _three battalions_ of the line guarding the fort at

the pass, and _two companies_, one of engineers, one of Alpine infantry.

"My informant, who desires to remain anonymous, further declares it to

be his belief that an exhaustive study of this and similar posters would

reveal perfectly clear messages in every detail of color, drawing, and

letter-press; and that it is his firm conviction that these posters,

representing a German firm which manufactures soap, have been placed

throughout Belgium and France for the convenience of an invading army.

"Immediate removal of these advertisements seems advisable in the

opinion of my informant.

"(Signed), SISTER EILA,

"Of the Daughters of St. Vincent de Paul at Sais."

When she had finished the letter and had unhesitatingly signed it, she

lifted her clear eyes to him in silence. Her breath came a trifle

unevenly; the tint of excitement grew and waned in her cheeks.

"At least," he said, "you will understand that I am a friend to France."

"Yes, that is evident."

"Will you direct and seal the packet and give it to the postman?"

"Yes."

"And, Sister Eila, if they send gendarmes or other officials to question

you?"

She looked straight into his eyes, deeply, so that her gaze seemed to

plunge into the depths of his very soul.

Then, lifting the cross from the rosary at her girdle, she slipped out

of her chair and knelt down beside her desk, her young head bent low

over the crucifix which she held between the palms of her joined hands.

Halkett, head also lowered, stood motionless.

After a few moments she rose lightly from her knees.

"It is a vow, now," she said. "I have bound myself to silence

concerning the source of my information--" her untroubled eyes rested

again on his--"because I believe in you, Monsieur."

He started to speak, but seemed to find no word to utter. A bright

color mounted to his brow; he turned abruptly from the desk and stepped

toward the open door.

And the instant he appeared there, framed by the doorway, a shot rang

out, knocking a cloud of stucco and plaster from the wall beside him.

*CHAPTER IX*

He shrank back flat against the wall, edged along it, and slipped

swiftly inside the house. A thick veil of lime dust hung across the open

doorway, gilded by the sunlight. Crumbs of plaster and mortar still

fell to the schoolroom floor.

Through the heated silence of early afternoon he could hear the distant

cries of the children from their playground; there was no other sound;

nothing stirred; nobody came.

If Warner had noticed the shot at all, no doubt he supposed it to be the

premature report of some piece. To the gaunt, furtive Vosges poacher no

close season exists. If it did exist, he would cease to.

Halkett slowly turned his head and saw Sister Eila behind him. She had

risen from her chair at the desk; now she came slowly forward, her deep,

grey eyes fixed on him. But before she could take another step he laid

his hand firmly on her wide, blue sleeve and forced her back into the

room.

"Keep away from that door," he said quietly.

"Did somebody try to kill you?" she asked. Her voice was curious, but

perfectly calm.

"I think so.... Don't show yourself near that door. They might not be

able to distinguish their target at such a range."

"They? Who are 'they'?"

"Whoever fired.... I must ask you again to please keep out of range of

that doorway----"

"The shot came from the river willows across the fields, did it not?"

she interrupted.

"I'm very sure of it. You need not feel any anxiety for the children,

Sister; I am going. There'll be no more shots."

"There is a door at the back by the kitchen yard, Mr. Halkett. They

will not see you if you leave that way."

He stood thinking for a while; then:

"On your account, and on the children's, I'll have to show myself again

when I leave the house, so that there'll be no mistake about my

identity. Don't move until after I have gone some distance along the

road. And please say to Mr. Warner that I've returned to the inn for

luncheon----"

"There is a door in the rear! You must not show yourself----"

"Indeed, I must. Otherwise, they might mistake you or Sister Felicite

or one of the children for me----"

"Mr. Halkett!" He had already started.

"Yes?" he replied, halting and glancing back; and found her already at

his elbow.

"Why were you shot at?" she asked. "I desire to know."

He looked her straight in the eyes:

"I can't tell you why, Sister."

"You say you are English, and that you are a friend to France. If that

is true, then tell me who shot at you! Do you know?"

"In a general way, I suppose I do know."

"Do you not trust a French Sister of Charity sufficiently to tell her?"

"What man would not trust a daughter of St. Vincent de Paul?" he said

pleasantly.

"Then tell me. Perhaps I already guess. Has it to do with your

knowledge of German advertisements?"

He was silent.

"You are evidently a British agent." Her deep, grey eyes grew more

earnest. "You are _more_!" she said, clasping her hands with sudden

conviction. "I suspected it the first time I saw you----"

"Please do not say to anybody what it is that you suspect----"

"You are a British officer!" she exclaimed.

"Sister Eila; you could do me much harm by mentioning to others this

belief of yours, or anything concerning this affair. And--do you

remember that you once said you trusted me?"

"I said it--yes."

"Do you still have confidence in me?"

Their eyes met steadily.

"Yes," she said. "I believe you to be a friend to France, and to me."

A slight flush edged the snowy wimple which framed the lovely oval of

her face.

"I _am_ your friend; and I am a friend to France--I say as much as that

to you. I say it because of what you are, and because--you are _you_.

But ask me no more, Sister. For men of my profession there are

confessionals as secret and as absolute in authority as those which

shrive the soul."

He hesitated, his eyes shifted from her to the fresh flowers on the

desk, which they had both gathered; he reached over and drew a white

blossom from the glass.

"May I take it with me?"

She bent her head in silence.

Then he turned to go through the deadly doorway, carrying his flower in

his hand; but, as he walked out into the sunshine, Sister Eila stepped

swiftly in front of him, turned on the doorstep, screening him with

extended arms.

"This is the best way," she said. "They ought to see quite clearly that

I am a Sister of Charity, and they won't fire at me----"

But he tried to push her aside and spring past her:

"Stand clear of me, for God's sake!" he said.

"Wait----"

"Sister! Are you insane?"

"_You_ must be, Mr. Halkett----"

"Keep away, I tell you----"

"Please don't be rough with me----"

He tried to avoid her, but her strong, young hands had caught both his

wrists.

"They won't shoot at a Sister of Charity!" she repeated. "--And I shall

not permit them to murder you! Be reasonable! I am not afraid."

She held on to his wrists, keeping always between him and the distant

glimmer of the river:

"I shall walk to the road with you this way; don't try to shake me off;

I am strong, I warn you!" She was even laughing now. "Please do not

wriggle! Only schoolboys wriggle. Do you suppose I am _afraid_? Since

when, Monsieur, have Sisters of Charity taken cover from the enemies of

France?"

"This is shameful for me----"

"You behave, as I have said, like a very bad schoolboy, Mr. Halkett----"

He tried vainly to place himself between her and the river, but could

not disengage her grasp without hurting her. Then, over his shoulder,

he saw three men come out of the river willows.

"You shall not take this risk----" he insisted.

"Please listen----"

"I take no risk worth mentioning. It was you who would have walked out

to face their fire--with that smile on your lips and a flower in your

hand! Did you think that a Grey Sister would permit that? Soyez

convenable, Monsieur. They will not fire while I am walking beside

you." She looked over her shoulder. One of the men by the willows was

raising a rifle.

They reached the highway at the same moment, and the roadside bank

sheltered them. Here she released his arm.

"I beg you to be a little reasonable," she said. "You must leave Sais at

once. Promise me, Mr. Halkett----"

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"Sister, if I am really a soldier, as you suppose me to be, perhaps I

have--_orders_--to remain at Sais."

"Have you?" she asked frankly.

He turned and looked at her:

"Yes, little comrade."

"That is really serious."

"It must not cause you any anxiety. I shall 'wriggle'--as you say--out

of this mess when the time comes. I may start tonight."

"For London? Do you wriggle as far as that?"

He said gravely:

"You know more about me now from my own lips than I would admit, even

prompted by a firing squad. I trusted you even before you faced death

for me on that doorstep a moment ago. _Did you see that man come out of

the willows and level his rifle at us?_"

She said tranquilly:

"We daughters of St. Vincent de Paul never heed such things."

"I know you don't; I know what are your traditions. Many a Sister of

your Order has fallen under rifle and shell fire on the battlefields of

the world; many have died of the pest in hospitals; many have succumbed

to exposure. The history of modern war is the history of the Grey

Sisters. What you have just done, as a matter of course, is already

part of that history. And so--" he looked down at her crucifix and

rosary--"and so, Sister, and comrade, I shall tell you what it would not

be possible for me to admit to any other living soul in France. Yes; I

_am_ a British officer on special and secret duty. I left the United

States two weeks ago. Trouble began in Holland. I am now on my way to

London. Orders came today halting me at Sais. Enemies of France are

annoying me--people who are becoming more desperate and more determined

as the hours pass and the moment approaches swiftly when they can no

longer hope to interfere with me. That moment will come when war is

declared. It will be declared. I shall be very glad to arrive in

England. Now I have told you almost everything, Sister Eila. My honor

is in your keeping; my devotion is for my own country, for France--and

for you."

"I have made one vow of silence," she said simply. "I shall make

another--never to breathe one word of this."

"You need not. Just say to me that you will not speak."

Her lovely face became as solemn as a child's:

"I shall not speak, Mr. Halkett."

"That settles it," he said. "If it lay with me, I'd trust you with

every secret in our War Office!" He checked himself, hesitated, then:

"Sister Eila, if anything happens to me, go to Mr. Warner and ask him

for _that envelope_. There are sure to be British soldiers in France

before very long. Give that envelope to some British officer."

After a moment she laughed:

"Englishmen are odd--odd! They are just boys. They are delightful. I

shall do what you ask.... And there is your inn.... Am I tired? _I_?

Vous plaisantez, Monsieur! But, Mr. Halkett, what would be the object

in your walking back with me? I should only have to walk back here

again with you! It would continue _ad infinitum_."

They both laughed.

"When trouble finally comes, and if I am hit, I pray I may lie in your

ward," he said gayly.

Her smile faded:

"I shall pray so, too," she said.

"I'd feel like a little boy safe in his own nursery," he added, still

smiling.

"I am--happy--to have you think of me in that way." Her smile glimmered

anew in her eyes. "I should be a devoted nurse." She made him a

friendly little signal of adieu and turned away.

Hat in hand, he stood looking after the grey-blue figure under the snowy

headdress.

At the turn of the road she looked back, saw him, still standing there;

and again, from the distance, she made him a pretty gesture of caution

and of farewell. Then the grassy bank hid her from view.

At the Inn of the Golden Peach, Warner's Harem was already lunching.

Through the open windows of the dining-room came a discreet clatter of

tableware and crockery, and a breezy, cheery tumult like the chatter in

an aviary.

Halkett, not fancying it, went around the house to the quiet garden.

Here he wandered to and fro among the trees or stood about aimlessly,

looking down at the flower beds where, kneeling beside Sister Eila, he

had aided her to fill her ozier basket.

Later Warner found him seated under the arbor with Ariadne on his knee;

and a few moments afterward the maid, Linette, served their luncheon.

Neither of the young men was very communicative, but after the dishes

and cloth had been removed, and when Halkett, musing over his cigarette

and coffee, still exhibited no initiative toward conversation, Warner

broke the silence:

"What about that shot?" he asked bluntly.

"What shot?"

"Don't you want to talk about it?"

Halkett glanced up, amused:

"Well, I suppose there was no hiding that bullet hole and the plaster

dust from Sister Felicite."

"Of course not. The bullet ripped out the lathing. Who was it fired at

the school? Or was it at you they let go?"

"Didn't you ask Sister Eila?"

"I did. She absolutely refused to discuss it, and referred us both to

you. It was no accident, was it?"

"No."

"Somebody tried to get _you_?"

"It rather looked that way."

"Our friends in the grey car, of course!" concluded Warner.

"Not necessarily. _They_ have other friends who might be equally

attentive to me. I don't know who shot at me. There were three of them

over by the river."

"Well, Halkett, don't you think you had better remain indoors for a

while?"

"I'd better, I suppose." He laughed. "Honestly, I'm sick of being shot

at. One of these days they'll hit me, if they're not very careful."

But Warner did not smile.

"Do you promise to stay indoors?" he insisted.

"I'll see. Perhaps."

"Don't you think it advisable for you to carry some sort of a

firearm--one of my automatics, for example?"

"Thanks, old fellow. I think I'll do that, if you can spare a section

of your artillery for a day or two."

Warner promptly fished an automatic out of his hip pocket, and Halkett

took it and examined it.

"So I'm to do the Wild West business after all," he said gayly. "Right

you are, old chap. I know how it's done; I've read about it in your

novels. You wait till your enemy takes a drop, then you get the drop!"

He laughed at his British joke. And, having no hip pocket, he stowed

away the lumpy bluish weapon in a side pocket of his coat.

"Now, don't let me interfere with your daily routine," he continued. "I

shall do very well here in the arbor while you lead your Harem toward

the Olympian heights."

"Sometimes I feel like pushing 'em off those cliffs," muttered Warner.

"All right; I fancy you'll be snug enough in the garden, here with

Ariadne, till I return. We shall have the whole house to ourselves after

dinner. The Harem migrates to Ausone for overnight to do street

sketches tomorrow, and returns the next morning for a general criticism.

So if you'll amuse yourself----"

"I shall be quite comfortable, thanks. If anybody climbs the wall to

pot me, we'll turn loose on 'em, this time--won't we, old

girl?"--caressing Ariadne, who had returned to his knee.

Half an hour afterward Warner went away in the wake of the Harem; and at

the end of the second hour he gave them a final criticism before they

started for Ausone.

Much good it did them; but they adored it; they even adored his

sarcasms. For the Harem truly worshiped this young man--a fact of which

he remained uncomfortably conscious, timidly aware that warier men than

he had been landed by maidens less adept than they.

So it was with his usual sense of deep relief that he saluted the Harem,

picked up his own kit and canvases, and wandered at hazard through a

little poplar grove and out of it on the other edge.

A wild meadow, deep with tasseled grasses and field flowers, stretched

away before him, where swallows sailed and soared and skimmed--where

blue lupin, _bouton d'or_, meadowsweet, and slender, silvery stems

crowned with queen's lace grew tall, and the heliotrope perfume of

hidden hawkweed scented every fitful little wind.

But what immediately fixed his attention was a distant figure wading

waist-deep amid the grasses--a slim, brilliant shape, which became oddly

familiar as it drew nearer, moving forward with light and boyish grace,

stirring within him vaguely agreeable recollections.

Then, in spite of her peasant's dress, he recognized her; and he walked

swiftly forward to meet her. The figure out there in the sunshine saw

him coming and lifted one arm in distant recognition and salute.

They met in mid-meadow, Warner and the girl Philippa.

Her short skirt and low peasant bodice had faded to a rose-geranium

tint; her white chemisette, laced with black, was open wide below the

throat. Black velvet straps crossed it on the shoulders and around the

cuffs. Her hair was tied with a big black silk bow.

"How in the world did you come to be here?" he asked, not yet releasing

the eager, warm little hands so frankly clasped between both of his.

Philippa laughed with sheerest happiness:

"Figurez-vous, Monsieur. I have been punting since early morning; and

when I found myself so near to Sais I was ready to drop with heat and

fatigue: 'Mais, n'importe! Allons!' I said to myself. 'Courage, little

one! Very soon you shall see Mr. Warner painting a noble picture by the

river!' Et puis----" She tightened her clasp on his hands with an

adorable laugh, "Nous voici enfin ensemble--tous les deux--vous et moi!

Et je suis bien content et bien fatiguee."

"But, Philippa--how in the world do you propose to get back to Ausone

tonight?"

She shrugged, looked up as though protesting to the very skies:

"I have this instant arrived, and his first inquiry is concerning my

departure! That is not a very friendly welcome."

"Philippa, I _am_ glad to see you----"

"It is time you said so----"

"I thought you understood----"

The girl laughed:

"I understand how glad I am to see _you_!" She looked about her in the

sunshine, and touched a tall blossom of queen's lace with outstretched

fingers.

"How heavenly beautiful is this world of God!" she said with that

charming lack of self-consciousness which the skies of France seem to

germinate even in aliens. "I am very glad to see you," she repeated

abruptly, "and I am awaiting the expression of your sentiments."

"Of course I am glad to see you, Philippa----"

"That makes me quite happy." She smiled on him and then looked

curiously at his painting kit. "If you will choose your picture," she

added, "I shall sit beside you and watch you at your painting. It will

be agreeable. We can converse."

So he chose a ferny spot at the wood's edge, pitched his field easel and

camp stool, and opened his color box; and Philippa seated herself

cross-legged on the short grass beside him, gathering both slim ankles

into her hands.

While he was fussing with his canvas, she sang to herself blithely,

radiantly contented, rocking herself to and fro to the rhythm of her

song:

"'Hussar en vedette,

What do you see?

The sun has set

And a voice is calling me

Across the Recollette,

Where the scented rushes fret

In the May wind's breath--

Et garde a vous, Hussar!

'Tis the voice of Death!

'Hussar en vedette,

What do you see?

The moon has set

And a white shape beckons me

Across the Recollette,

Where the scented rushes fret

In the night wind's breath--

Et garde a vous, Hussar!

'Tis the shape of Death!'"

Singing away with the serene unconsciousness of a bird, rocking her

lithe young body, and watching his every movement out of wide grey eyes,

Philippa assisted at the artistic preparations with great content,

missing nothing.

"To squeeze color from tubes must be amusing," she remarked. "I like to

squeeze out tooth paste."

"I am very sure," said Warner, "that you accomplish more charming

results with your tooth paste than I do with my colors."

The girl laughed, showing her snowy teeth:

"Do you find them pretty, Monsieur?"

"Quite perfect, and therefore in keeping with the remainder of you,

Philippa."

"He really seems to mean it," she said, addressing a grasshopper which

had alighted on her knee. And to Warner: "Is my face sufficiently

scrubbed to suit you?"

He glanced down at her:

"You have kept your word, haven't you?"

"Ma foi! My word is my word.... Listen; I came to Sais to see you; and

partly because I have something to show you. It concerns your friend, I

think."

"Mr. Halkett?"

"Yes. After the fight in our cabaret there was much excitement, but

when you had disappeared, and before the agents de police and the

gendarmes arrived, I found on the floor under the overturned table a

portfolio. In that portfolio was part of an unfinished letter. It is

written in German. I could not read it; but, studying it, I recognized

Mr. Halkett's name written several times. So I said nothing to anybody,

but I have brought it. Here it is."

She drew from her bosom a small leather pocketbook.

"Before you examine it," she continued, "I ought to tell you what really

happened at the cabaret. Those men who attacked Mr. Halkett were in the

employment of Monsieur Wildresse."

"What!" exclaimed Warner.

"It is true. I was furious when I noticed them creeping up behind him.

I realized instantly what they meant to do, and I cried out--too late.

You ought to be told about this. Therefore, I came here to tell you.

"And I desire to tell you more. The three men who were seated across

the hall, and who attempted to pick a quarrel with Mr. Halkett, were

'provocative agents'--Germans.

"The _patron_ knew them and interfered. Besides, he had his own ideas

and his own ends to serve just then.

"But I saw those three German agents whisper to a fourth--a stranger.

And that man came and seated himself with three other men directly

behind Mr. Halkett, where he stood while you were talking to me----"

"Philippa," he interrupted with blunt impatience, "I don't understand

all this that you are saying to me. Give me that letter if it concerns

Mr. Halkett."

The girl colored painfully.

"Please don't speak rudely to me," she said. "I am trying to behave

honestly----"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to speak roughly. Please continue."

"Yes; it is better you should know what happened before you read this

letter. Well, then, the men who attacked Mr. Halkett naturally got

away; the patron attended to that. Naturally, also, he desired to have

people believe that the German agents were responsible for the fight,

and they were, therefore, detained by Monsieur Wildresse and were asked

for an explanation. Then they declared that Mr. Halkett was a British

spy, and that they were Belgian police agents with full authority to

arrest him in France. Which was a lie, of course, but it served its

purpose by increasing the tumult."

"Did they say that they were Belgians?"

"Yes. I heard them. They lied. There was much confusion and

shouting--everybody crowding around and disputing. The three Germans

pushed their way toward the door; nobody knew whether or not to stop

them." She shrugged. "They were gone before people could make up their

minds. And, as usual, the police came in too late. Now you know all

there is to tell about what happened after you left the cabaret."

Warner laid aside his brushes, looked curiously at the portfolio which

she held out to him, hesitated, then opened it and drew out three pages

of a letter in German, but written in English script. Evidently it was

an unfinished fragment of a letter. He translated it rather freely and

without any great difficulty:

--were followed from New York by this man, Halkett, and a companion of

his named Gray. Disembarking at Antwerp and going immediately to room

No. 23 in the Hotel St. Antoine, according to instructions, we walked

directly into a trap, prepared for us, no doubt, by a wireless message

sent from the steamer by the individual, Halkett. Schmidt was knocked

flat on his back and lay unconscious; me they hurled violently on the

bed; my face was covered with a pillow, my legs and arms held as in a

vise, while they ripped my clothing from me and then literally tore it

to shreds in their search for the papers I carried.

In the lining of my vest they found the information and drawings which

we had been at such pains and danger to secure from the Yankee War

Department. And now the Yankee Government will find out who has been

robbing it.

Unless we can overtake these individuals, Halkett and Gray, the loss to

us must be irreparable, as we dared not study the plans and formula on

board ship, nor even venture to trust in the security of our stateroom,

believing that British agents might be on board and watching. God knows

they were.

I regret deeply that we did not suspect Halkett and Gray.

Also, the ship's officers, crew, stewards, wireless operator--all

evidently were our enemies and in willing collusion with these two

Englishmen.

Gray, on his motor cycle, left Antwerp for Brussels. We shall watch him

and prevent his meeting Halkett in France. We fear they have divided

the papers between them.

Our orders are to use our own discretion. Therefore, I repeat that Gray

shall not live to meet Halkett.

As for Halkett, he undoubtedly has some of the papers on his person. We

missed him in Holland by accident; we unfortunately failed in the city

of Luxembourg, because he was too crafty to cross the viaduct, but slept

that night in a water mill under the walls in the lower city.

We traced him to Diekirch, but missed him again, twice, although

Schmidt, who was posted further along on the narrow-gauge line, fired at

him as a last resort. For, as you point out, it is better that France

should come into possession of the Harkness shell than that the British

Admiralty should control it. The very existence of our fleet is now at

stake. France is slow to accept foreign inventions; but England is

quick as lightning.

So, if necessary, we shall take extreme measures in regard to Halkett

and Gray, and stand the chances that we may secure their papers and get

back to Berlin before the French police interfere.

And if we fail to get away, well, at least England shall not profit by

the Harkness shell.

Meier and Hoffman are following Gray; we are now leaving for Ausone, and

hope to find Halkett somewhere in that vicinity.

I am writing this with difficulty, as the road is not what it ought to

be, and the wind is disconcerting. Esser is acting as chauffeur----

And there the letter ended.

*CHAPTER X*

Philippa was plaiting grass stems when he finished his examination of

the letter. And while she deftly braided _boutons d'or_ among the green

blades, she continued under her breath the song of the Vidette, casting

an occasional side glance upward at him, where he sat on his camp stool

studying the written fragments.

At length, seeing that he had finished, she tossed aside the flowering

rope of grass, set her elbows on her knees, her rounded chin on her

hands, and regarded him inquiringly, as though, for the moment, she had

done with childish things.

"It is a letter which urgently concerns Mr. Halkett," he nodded coolly.

"Shall I give it to him?"

"Please."

He pocketed the portfolio, hesitated, glanced at his watch, then, with

an absent-minded air, began to pack up his painting kit. As he unhooked

his _toile_ he looked around at her.

"Philippa," he said, "if you are going to punt back to Ausone, isn't it

nearly time you started?"

"Aren't you going to paint any more?" she asked, smiling.

"No. I think I had better find Mr. Halkett and show him this letter."

"But--I have come all the way from Ausone to pay you a visit!" explained

the girl in hurt surprise. "Didn't you want to see me?"

"Certainly I want to see you," he replied smilingly. "But to punt up

stream to Ausone this afternoon is going to take you quite a long

while----"

"As for that," she remarked, "it need not concern us. I am not going

back to Ausone."

"Not going back!"

"Listen, please. Monsieur Wildresse and I have had a disagreement----"

"Nonsense!"

"No, a serious disagreement. I am not going back to Ausone. Shall I

tell you all about it?"

"Yes, but listen to me, Philippa. You can't run away from your home

merely because you have had a disagreement with your Patron and

guardian."

"Shall I tell you why we disagreed?"

"If you choose. But that doesn't justify you in running away from your

home."

The girl shook her head:

"You don't yet understand. In our cafe the French Government compels us

to spy on certain strangers and to report whatever we can discover.

Always it disgusted me to do such a thing. Now I shall not be obliged

to do it any more, because I am never going back to the Cabaret de

Biribi."

"Do you mean to say that you and Monsieur Wildresse are in the secret

service of your Government?" he asked, astonished.

"That is too dignified an explanation. I have been an informer since I

was seventeen."

"A--a _paid_ informer?"

"I don't know whether the Government pays Monsieur Wildresse."

"But he doesn't do such things for the pleasure of doing them."

"Pleasure? It is an abominable profession! It is unclean."

"Then why do you do it?" he demanded, amazed.

"I am not perfectly sure why. I know that the Patron is afraid of the

Government. That, I suppose, is why we have been obliged to take orders

from them."

"Afraid? Why?"

"It's partly on Jacques' account--his son's. If we do what they ask of

us they say that they won't send him to New Caledonia. But I believe it

is all _blague_." She looked up at Warner out of her troubled grey

eyes. "Espionage--that has been my _metier_ since I was taken out of

school--to listen in the cabaret, to learn to keep my eyes open, to

relate to the Patron whatever I saw or heard concerning any client the

Government desired him to watch.... Do you think that is a very

pleasant life for a young girl?"

His face became expressionless.

"Not very," he said. "Go on."

She said thoughtfully:

"It is a horrible profession, Mr. Warner. Why should I continue it?

Are there no police? Why should I, Philippa Wildresse, do their dirty

work? Can you explain? _Alors_, I have asked myself that many, many

times. Today, at last, I have answered my own question: I shall never

again play the spy for anybody! C'est fini! Voila!"

Warner remained silent.

"Why, it is revolting!" she exclaimed. "Figurez-vous, Monsieur! I was

even signaled to spy upon _you_! Can you conceive such a thing?"

"On _me_?" he repeated, bewildered and angry.

"Certainly. That is why I danced with you. I am permitted to dance

only with clients under observation."

Her unflattering candor sent a flush to his face. His latent vanity had

been rather rudely surprised.

"Afterward," she continued, "I knew you could not be the man they

wanted----"

"What man did they want?"

"Somebody who had stolen documents in America, I believe. But I was

sure that you were honest."

"Why?"

Philippa lifted her grey eyes:

"Because you were honest with _me_."

"How, honest?"

"You did not make love to me. Dishonest men always regard women as a

pastime. To make advances is the first thing I expect from them. I am

never disappointed. All men are more or less dishonest--excepting you."

"This is a sorry school you have been brought up in," he said grimly.

"Do you mean that I have had my schooling by observing life?"

"Yes--a life in a cabaret full of _rastaoqueres_ and _cocottes_--a

rather limited and sordid outlook, Philippa. The world lies outside."

"Still--it is life. Even a _cocotte_ is part of life."

"So is disease. But it isn't _all_ there is in life."

"Nor is life in a cabaret all corruption. A cabaret is merely the world

in miniature; all types pass in and out; they come and go as souls are

born and go: the door opens and closes; one sees a new face, one loses

it. It is much like birth and death."

She made an unconsciously graceful gesture toward the white clouds

overhead.

"A cabaret," she went on seriously, "is a republic governed by the

patron, audited by the _caissiere_, policed by waiters. Everybody goes

there--even you, Monsieur. All languages are spoken there, all

questions discussed, all theories aired, all passions ventilated. Every

trait of human nature is to be observed there; the germ of every comedy;

the motive of every tragedy.... Yet, as you say, it is a saddening

school.... Wisdom is too early acquired there. One learns too quickly

and too completely in such a school. Such an education means precocity.

It foreshadows the early death of youth, Monsieur.... If I remain

there, all that is still young in me will die, now, very quickly."

"You poor child!"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Therefore," she said, "I am leaving. Now do you understand?"

He sat looking at her, wondering uneasily at her intelligence and her

ability to express herself. Here was a maturity of mind unexpected in

this girl. So far it had not visibly altered the youth of her, nor

impaired her sweetness and honesty.

In spite of the appalling surroundings amid which she had matured, her

mind and heart still remained young.

Biting a tasselled grass stem reflectively, she sat thinking for a few

moments, then she reverted to the subject of Wildresse and his son.

"I am convinced that it is all _blague_," she repeated, "--this threat

of Noumea. Unless Jacques misbehaves very seriously in Biribi, nobody

can send him to La Nouvelle. Besides, if his father chooses to oblige

the Government, what does it matter about me? No; I have had enough of

degradation. An hour on the river with you was enough to settle it."

"But what do you intend to do, Philippa?" he inquired.

She looked up at him with her winning smile:

"I came to ask _you_ that. Please tell me what I am to do."

"You must not ask _me_----"

"Of course. You are the first man who ever pleased me. You please me

more and more. Why should I not come to you in my perplexity and say,

'What am I to do, my friend?'"

He reddened at that; found nothing to answer. The sudden and grotesque

responsibility which this young girl was so lightly placing upon his

shoulders might have amused if it had not disconcerted him. But it did

not disconcert her.

"What am I to do, Mr. Warner?" she repeated with a smile of perfect

confidence.

"Why, _I_ don't know, Philippa. What _can_ you do down here at Sais?"

"Tell _me_!" she insisted with undisturbed serenity.

"You couldn't very well remain here. You will have to go back to Ausone

and consider this matter more seriously----"

"Ah, ca--non! I shall _not_ go back!"

"What do you propose to _do_?"

She bit her grass stem:

"I don't know. I have my trunk in the punt----"

"What!"

"Certainly, I brought my effects! I have some money--not very much. I

shall go to the inn and remain there until you have decided what it is

best for me to do."

The situation began to strike him as sufficiently ludicrous--the tragic

mask is always on the verge of a grin--but he did not feel like smiling.

For a few minutes he occupied himself with collecting, strapping, and

slinging his kit; and when he was ready to go, he looked down at the

girl Philippa, where she was seated watching him out of her trustful

grey eyes.

"I can employ you as a model," he said, "until Monsieur Wildresse sends

for you. What do you think of the idea?"

[Illustration: "'I can employ you as a model,' he said"]

"As a--a _model_, Monsieur?" she stammered.

"Yes. You could pose for me, if you like."

A delicate scarlet flush slowly mounted to her hair.

Perplexed, he watched her.

"Don't you like the idea?" And suddenly he divined what was troubling

her. "Not that sort of model," he said, amused. "You shall wear your

clothes, Philippa."

"Oh.... Yes, I should like it, I think."

"It's about the only excuse which would enable you to remain at the inn

until you have come to some conclusion regarding your future," he

explained.

"A painter may always have his models? It is expected, is it not?"

"Oh, yes, _that_ is always understood. But nobody would understand your

coming to live at the Golden Peach merely because you and I happened to

be good friends," he added laughingly.

"I understand," she said in a grave voice. "I am to be your model, not

your friend."

He nodded carelessly, looking away from her. After a moment, he lighted

a cigarette. It relieved him considerably to recollect that the Harem

had gone to Ausone.

"Now," he said, "if you are ready to walk back to the inn with me, I'll

explain you to Madame Arlon, the _patronne_."

"And my punt?" she inquired, rising from the grass.

"Oh, Lord! I forgot."

"My trunk is in it."

"Where is your punt?"

She pointed across the meadow to where the river sparkled:

"It is my own punt; the _Lys_. I took nothing from Monsieur Wildresse

that did not belong to me. It will be agreeable for us to have a punt

here, will it not?"

"Very," he said uneasily.

They turned eastward across the blossoming meadow, over which already

the swallows were soaring in their late afternoon flight. A _vanneau_

or two rose from moist spots, protesting, and flapping away on

greenish-bronze wings; a _becassine_ went off like a badly-balanced

arrow, and his flat, raucous, "squack! squack!" rang through the sunny

silence. Higher, higher his twisting flight carried him toward the sky,

where he dwindled to a speck and vanished; but out of the intense blue

zenith his distant cry still rang long after he had disappeared from the

range of human vision.

*CHAPTER XI*

When Warner and the girl Philippa arrived at the Golden Peach, they

found that Madame Arlon, profiting by the prospective temporary absence

of the Harem, had gone to visit relatives near Nancy for a day or two.

But Linette smilingly took charge of Philippa and her luggage.

Warner, entering the southern end of the walled garden, discovered

Halkett at the other extremity, still seated under the latticed arbor.

A letter lay spread upon the table beside his elbow. Over this letter,

with pencil and paper, he pored as though he were working out a problem

in hieroglyphics.

But when Warner appeared, the Englishman leisurely folded and pocketed

the papers on which he had been working, nodded pleasantly, and handed

to Warner a copy of the _Petit Journal d'Ausone_.

"It came after you left," he said. "There's nothing really new in

it--Germany's ultimatum to Russia, that's about all.... I am feeling

rather anxious about a friend of mine, Reginald Gray. He was to have

arrived here last night or early this morning on his motor cycle. No

word has come from him _personally_, and it is now nearly night again."

Warner seated himself, glanced over the inky little provincial

newspaper, then laid it aside. There was in its columns nothing

definite concerning the threatened rupture of the peace of Europe.

"Halkett," he said almost solemnly, "this crime with which they say our

civilization is menaced can never be consummated. There will be no

World War, because the world dares not acquiesce in such an outrage.

The eleventh hour has struck, I know; but salvation exists only because

there is a twelfth hour on the dial; otherwise the preordained end of

everything would be hell."

Halkett smiled slightly.

"I've just had another letter," he said. "I'm likely to remain here for

a few days more.... Which means only one thing."

"What does it mean?"

"War."

Warner smiled incredulously.

"Anyway, there will be one compensation for the general smash if you

remain here," he said gayly.

"You're very good to take it that way.... You and I--and to hell with

the Deluge!" But his face sobered while the jest was spoken; he leaned

rather wearily on the iron table and rested his forehead in one hand.

"I wish I knew what has happened to Reginald Gray," he repeated.

"What is it that worries you about your friend Gray?"

"His cap was picked up on the highway five miles southeast of Sais."

"How could you know that?"

"I have just learned it by telephone, through a certain source of

information."

"Did you learn anything more?"

"_There was a little blood on the road._"

Warner remained silent.

"Also," continued Halkett thoughtfully, "a motor cycle had skidded up

the bank.... But no signs of a serious accident could be

discovered--merely the ragged swathe cut through soft earth and rank

vegetation.... If Gray met with an accident, he must have mended his

machine, remounted, and continued his course--wherever he was

going--unless somebody picked up him and his wheel and took them

away.... I can't understand this affair. It bothers me."

"The chances are that your friend Gray had a rather bad spill,"

suggested Warner, "and no doubt you'll hear from him, or about him,

before morning."

"I ought to, certainly." He filled and lighted his pipe; Warner rose

and began to pace the garden path rather nervously. Presently he came

back to where the Englishman sat brooding over his pipe and nursing

Ariadne.

"Halkett," he said abruptly, "you remember that girl Philippa in the

Cafe Biribi?"

The Englishman looked up inquiringly.

"Well, she is here."

"At the inn?"

"Yes. I met her down in the big river meadow this afternoon, and she

calmly informed me that she had left home for good."

"Run away?"

"Run away. Taken the key of the fields. Beat it for keeps. How does

that strike you?"

"Any particular reason?" inquired Halkett indifferently.

"Why, yes. The child has been used by the secret police to spy on

people in the Cafe Biribi."

Halkett's eyes opened at that.

Warner went on:

"That old rascal, Wildresse, it seems, is nothing but a paid informer.

He forced this girl Philippa to engage in the same filthy business. She

even admitted that old Wildresse had set her on _me_! No doubt he had

decided to watch you himself. And do you know what I think?"

Halkett was very wide-awake now. He said:

"I believe I do know what you are thinking. And I believe you are

pretty nearly right."

"That the assault on you was merely a local matter instigated by

Wildresse?"

"It wouldn't surprise me."

"I think it was, too. Some of his thugs did it. He had made up his

mind about you. But somebody must have tipped him off to watch you."

"Probably."

"I am sure of it. The three German-appearing men who tried to pick a

quarrel with you over the Archduke's murder were not the men who tried

to frisk you for your papers. They were 'provocative agents' in the pay

of a foreign government--hired opportunists who were expected to pick

something of value out of any confusion attending a general row fomented

by themselves."

"Who told you that?"

"Philippa."

Halkett, now thoroughly interested, looked keenly at Warner through the

thin haze of his pipe.

"These three agents," continued Warner, "were certainly in close

communication with the men who have been following you. And at least

one of those men was seated at the table directly behind you when

Wildresse's thugs tried to frisk you for documents. So you see that

Wildresse, prodded by the French secret police, and these provocative

agents, prodded by the people who are following you, who, in turn, are

spurred by the German Government, were all playing at cross purposes,

but with you as a common objective. A fine nest of intrigue I led you

into when I took you to the Cabaret de Biribi! I'm terribly sorry,

Halkett. But I believe that some good has come out of that mess--a

fragment of a letter, written in German, which Philippa gave me in the

meadow this afternoon.

"She found it under the wrecked table behind you. Nobody has seen it

except myself and Philippa; and the child cannot read much German. But,

studying it and seeing your name in the letter, she was clever enough to

bring it to me. Here it is." He laid it on the table under the

Englishman's eyes.

While Halkett remained absorbed in his translation, Warner paced the

garden, deeply occupied with his own uneasy cogitations. After a little

while Halkett spoke to him in an altered voice, and he turned and came

swiftly back to the arbor.

The Englishman, looking up, said gravely:

"Concerning myself, there seems to remain now nothing worth concealing

from you.... Perhaps you had better know the truth. I happen to be an

officer temporarily serving with the Intelligence Department; I had just

been assigned to duty in New York when the Harkness shell was stolen.

The general alarm went out. Gray, a brother officer, and I chanced to

stumble on evidence which sent us aboard an Antwerp steamer. Our birds

were aboard. We pulled every string available, and, passing over the

details of the affair, he and I managed to recover the drawings,

specifications, and formula which had been stolen. Some of these papers

are in that envelope.

"Every German agent in Europe knows we have them. My Government, for

some reason or other, instructs me to remain here for the present. As

Gray and I are known, doubtless somebody will appear and take the

drawings out of our hands, because the chances are that I'd be murdered

before I reached Calais. That is the situation, Warner."

"Has Gray any of the drawings?"

"He has."

"I understand."

"And that is why I am worrying about Gray. They'd not hesitate to kill

him if they thought there was a chance that he had any of the papers."

Warner said:

"They couldn't have killed him. A crime on the public highway cannot

remain undiscovered very long."

Halkett sat thoughtfully stroking Ariadne. Presently he looked up with

a slight smile.

"Well, what are you going to do with the girl Philippa?" he inquired.

"Now, what do you think of a situation like this?" demanded Warner, half

laughing, half vexed. "I told her to go home. She positively refuses.

You can't blame the child. The dirty business there has disgusted her.

This seems to be a final revolt. But--what would _you_ do if a young

girl wished herself on _you_?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," said Halkett, intensely amused.

Warner reddened.

"I haven't either," he said. "All I can think of is to use her as a

model--give her a small salary until she finds something to do."

"Are you going to use her for a model?"

"I suppose so, until somebody comes after her to take her back."

"Suppose nobody comes?" suggested Halkett mischievously.

"Well, I'm not going to adopt her, that's certain," insisted the other.

"Poor little thing!" he added. "--Her instincts seem to be decent. Who

could blame a young girl for sickening of such a life and cutting away

on her own hook? That's a rotten joint, that Cabaret de Biribi. And as

for that old villain, Wildresse, it wouldn't surprise me at all if he

were playing the dirty game from both ends--German and French.

Informers are often traitors."

"Very frequently."

"Spies also have that reputation, I believe--except in romantic

fiction," said Warner.

"They usually deserve it," returned Halkett. "Generally speaking, they

are a scum recruited from low pubs and brothels. Rarely does any

reputable person enter that profession except in line of military duty

or in time of war.

"Servants, waiters, chauffeurs, those are the most respectable classes

of secret agents. But the demi-monde and their hangers-on furnish the

majority of those popularly supposed to represent people of position who

play the role of international spy. They are a rummy lot, Warner.

"It is very, very seldom in Occidental drawing-rooms that such practices

prevail. A woman of position very rarely becomes a paid agent of that

sort. Diplomats and attaches who are pumped and victimized are usually

the dupes of socially disreputable people. Society in England and in

Western Europe rarely entertains such a favorite of fiction as a paid

Government spy; nor are such people very often recruited from its ranks.

East of the Danube it is different."

They sat for a while smoking, Halkett lavishing endearments upon Ariadne

who never failed to respond, Warner musing on what Halkett had said and

wondering exactly what duties the Military Intelligence Department of

any Government might include.

No doubt, like the Government, it employs spies, and, like the

Government, never admits the fact.

For among all outcasts so vitally necessary to autocracy and militarism,

the spy is the most pitiable: in time of peace no authority admits

employing him; in time of war, his fate, if taken, is as certain as that

his own Government will disown him. Eternally repudiated, whether of

respectable or disreputable antecedents, honest or otherwise, patriotic

or mercenary, the world has only one opinion to express concerning

spies, although it often cackles over their adventures and snivels over

their fate.

Perhaps Halkett was musing on these things, for presently he took his

pipe from his mouth and said:

"To my knowledge, we British never employ spies in America. Your

Government, I know, never employs them anywhere in time of peace. All

other Governments do. Europe swarms with them. If I were in Germany

today, I'd be considered a spy. They'd follow me about and lock me up

on the first excuse--or without any excuse at all. And if we chanced to

be at war with Germany, and I were caught, they'd certainly shoot me

because I have recovered stolen property."

"They'd execute you because you are not in uniform?"

"Certainly. I'd not stand a ghost of a chance. So I shall be rather

glad that I'm in France when war comes."

"You are so certain it is coming?"

"Absolutely, my dear fellow. Probably it will be declared tomorrow."

"I cannot believe it, Halkett."

"I can scarcely believe it myself. But--I know it is coming. And it is

coming from the north."

"Through _Belgium_?"

"Exactly."

"And the treaty?"

"I have already told you how Germany regards such agreements. She'll

kill that treaty with just as much emotion as she'd experience in

assassinating a fly. It's a rotten outlook, Warner. The eleventh hour

has passed."

They smoked for a while in silence, then:

"Where is your little protegee?" asked Halkett, making an effort to

shake off his depression.

"Linette is making her comfortable. When Madame Arlon returns from

Nancy I shall tell her to look out for the child. She's in her room,

unpacking, I suppose."

"Did she even bring her boxes?" asked the Englishman, greatly amused.

"Yes, she did. And I don't know what on earth she intends to do for a

living when I go back to Paris. I'm sorry for her, but she can't expect

me to travel about France with her----"

He checked himself abruptly; Halkett also looked up.

The girl Philippa had entered the further end of the garden.

She came slowly forward through the rosy evening light, straight and

slim in her girlish gown of white, unrelieved except by a touch or two

of black, and by the coppery splendor of her hair.

She halted in the path a little way from the arbor, evidently aware that

somebody was within.

"Are you there, Monsieur Warner?" she asked in her sweet, childish

voice.

He got up with a glance of resignation at Halkett, and went to meet her.

Halkett, from the arbor, noticed the expression of her face when Warner

appeared, and he continued to observe the girl with curious attention.

She had instinctively laid her hands in Warner's, detaining him naively,

and looking up into his face with an honesty too transparent to mistake.

"I miss you very much," she said, "even for a few minutes. I hastened

my toilet to rejoin you."

"That is very sweet of you, Philippa----" He didn't know what else to

say; felt the embarrassment warm on his face--chagrin, shyness,

something of both, perhaps--and a rather helpless feeling that he was

acquiescing in an understanding which already was making him very

uneasy.

"Come in to the arbor," he said. "Mr. Halkett is there."

She slipped her arm through his. Halkett saw both their faces as they

approached, and, watching Warner for a moment, he felt inclined to

laugh. But in this young girl's eyes there was something that checked

his amusement. A man does not laugh at the happy and serious eyes of

childhood.

So he rose and paid his respects to Philippa with pleasant formality;

she seated herself between the two men.

The last pink rays of the sun fell across the little iron table,

flooding the garden with an enchanted light: already the evening perfume

of clove pinks had become exquisitely apparent; a belated bumblebee

blundered out of the reseda and, rising high in the calm air, steered

his bullet flight into the west. Ariadne, on the table, stretched

herself, yawned, and looked about her, now thoroughly awake for the rest

of the night.

"_Minette!_" murmured Philippa, caressing her and laying her cheek

against the soft fur.

"You are sunburned," remarked Halkett.

"And badly freckled, Monsieur----" She looked mischievously at Warner,

laughed at their secret agreement concerning cosmetics, then turned

again to Halkett:

"You have heard, I suppose, of the happy understanding between Mr.

Warner and me?"

"I think so," said Halkett, subduing an inclination to laugh.

"The future, for me, is entirely secure," continued Philippa happily.

"I am permitted to assist Mr. Warner in his art. It is a very wonderful

future, Mr. Halkett, destined for me without doubt by God." She added,

half to herself: "And a lifetime on my knees would be too short a time

to thank Him in."

Both men became silent and constrained, Warner feeling more helpless

than ever in the face of such tranquil confidence; Halkett remembering

what Warner had once said about the soul of Philippa--but still

pleasantly and gently inclined to skepticism concerning this _fille de

cabaret_.

Philippa, leaning forward on the table between them, joined her slender

hands and looked at Warner.

"It is pleasant to be accepted as a friend by such men as you are," she

said thoughtfully.... "I have met other gentlemen of your station in

life, now and then. But their attitude toward me has been different

from yours.... I once supposed that, in a cabaret, all men resembled

each other where women were concerned. I have been very happily

mistaken."

Warner said:

"A man scarcely expects to see more than one sort of woman in a

cabaret."

"Yet, you were not astonished to see me, were you?"

"Yes," he said, "I was astonished."

"You did not seem to be."

Warner glanced at Halkett:

"Do you remember what I once said about Philippa's soul?"

The Englishman smiled at Philippa:

"As soon as Mr. Warner saw you he said to me that your soul was as clean

as a flame.... I was slower to understand you."

The girl turned swiftly to Warner:

"What a heavenly thing for a man to say about a woman! And my lips

painted scarlet--and I a _caissiere de cabaret_----" Her voice broke

childishly; she sprang to her feet and stood looking through the

starting tears at the last level rays of the sun.

Standing so, unstirring till the tears dried, she presently turned and

resumed her chair; and, after a few moments' silence, she dropped her

elbows on the table again and clasped her hands under her chin.

She said, not looking at either of the men:

"I have thought of becoming a nun. But it is too late. Cloisters make

awkward inquiries and search records; no Sisterhood of any order I ever

heard of would admit to a novitiate any girl who has served five years

where I have served.... And so--until I saw you--I did not know what

was to become of me----"

She lifted her grey eyes to Warner. They were starry with recent tears.

Her chin rested on her clasped hands, her enchanted gaze on him.

Halkett was first to move and make an effort:

"Yes, it was perhaps time to cut away," he muttered. "Anything we can

do--very glad, I'm sure."

"Certainly," said Warner. "There are a lot of agreeable young women in

my class who will be interested to know you when they return from Ausone

day after tomorrow----"

Philippa turned swiftly toward him:

"I do not wish any woman to know what I have been! You wouldn't _tell_

them, would you?"

"No, of course not--if you feel that way," he said. "Only I--it occurred

to me--some protection--some countenance--understanding--from other

women----"

"I desire none. I want only your friendship."

"But how am I going to explain you----"

"You are a painter. I am your model. Is not that sufficient

explanation?"

"Yes--if you desire to be so regarded--permanently----"

"I do. My privacy will then remain my own. I permit nobody to invade

it--excepting you."

"Very well, if you feel that way.... Only, you are--attractive,

Philippa--and I am rather afraid you might not be understood----"

She shrugged her shoulders:

"For five years I have not been understood. Do you know that men have

even thrown dice for me, so certain were they that they understood me?

I am accustomed to it. But I am not accustomed to women--I mean to your

kind. I distrust them; possibly I am afraid of them. Anyway, their

interest in me would be unwelcome. It is your friendship I want.

Nothing else matters."

"You are wrong, Philippa. Other things do matter. No woman can go it

alone, disdainful of other women's opinions."

"I have always been alone."

Warner said patiently:

"I should not do anything without first consulting you."

"I feel very sure that you would not." She smiled at him trustfully,

her cheek on her linked fingers; then her gaze grew absent. The last

sun ray lingered on her hair, turning it to fiery bronze. Under it her

grey eyes gazed absently into the future, filled now, for her, with

iridescent castles and peopled with vaguely splendid images--magic

scenes that young and lonely hearts evoke out of the very emptiness of

their isolation.

And in the center of the phantom pageant always appeared Warner, her

friend, endowed with all the mystery and omniscience with which a young

girl's heart invests the man who first awakens it to irregularity--who

first interferes with the long monotony of its virgin rhythm.

Halkett, a little keener of the two--a little more sensitive, if more

reticent--said pleasantly:

"Perhaps you might prefer to dine out here with us, Philippa. The

Ha--the class, I mean--banquets and carouses in the dining-room, when it

is here."

"Of course I wish to dine with you! I said so to Linette before I came

out here. It is all arranged."

Halkett laughed. At the same moment, Linette came out with the tray.

A bright afterglow still lingered in the zenith when their leisurely

dinner had ended; and in the garden the mellow light was beginning to

make objects exquisitely indistinct.

Halkett, smoking in silence, was evidently thinking about his friend

Gray, for, when Linette came to remove the cloth and coffee cups, and to

say that some gentlemen on motor cycles were at the garden gate

inquiring for Mr. Halkett, the young Englishman rose with a quick sigh

of relief and walked swiftly to the heavy, green door under the arch in

the garden wall.

As he laid his hand on the latch, he turned toward Warner:

"I'll bring Gray in directly," he called back; and opened the door and

stepped out into the dusk.

At the same instant Warner rose to his feet, listening; then he ran for

the green door. As he reached it, the heavy little door burst open;

Halkett sprang inside, slid the big iron bolt into place, turned and

warned the American aside with upflung hand.

"Keep Philippa out of range of the door!" he called across the garden,

drawing his automatic at the same time and springing backward. "Don't

stand in a line with that green door----"

A volley of pistol shots cut him short.

*CHAPTER XII*

The green door in the garden wall had been perforated by a dozen bullets

from outside before the first heavy crash came, almost shaking it from

its hinges.

Warner had already whipped out his own automatic; Halkett pushed him

aside across a flower bed.

"Keep out of this!" he said. "It's my affair----"

"I'm damned if it is!" retorted Warner. "I'll settle that question once

for all!" And he leveled his automatic and sent a stream of lead

through the green door in the wall.

No more blows fell on it, but all over it, from top to bottom, white

splinters flew while bullets poured through it from outside.

"You are wrong to involve yourself," insisted Halkett, raising his voice

to dominate the racket of the automatics. "They want only me."

"So do I, Halkett. And I've got you and mean to keep you. Blood is the

thicker, you know."

Philippa came from the arbor, carrying the badly frightened cat with

difficulty.

"Is it really war?" she asked calmly, while Ariadne alternately cowered

and struggled.

"Just a little private war," said Halkett. "And you had better go into

the house at once----"

"You and I should go, also," added Warner, "if there are more than two

men out there."

"I saw at least half a dozen beyond the wall. You are quite right,

Warner; we couldn't hope to hold this garden. But I dislike to go into

a strange house and invite assault on other people's property--just to

save my own hide----"

"Keep out of range!" interrupted Warner sharply, taking him by the arm

and following Philippa around the garden toward the rear of the house.

The back door was iron, armed with thick steel bolts; the neighborhood

of the quarry rendering such defenses advisable. Warner shot all three

bolts, then passed rapidly through the kitchen to the front door and

secured it, while Halkett went to the telephone. The nearest gendarmes

were at Ausone.

Linette, the chambermaid and waitress, and Magda, the cook, had followed

Halkett and Philippa from the pantry through the kitchen to the front

hallway. They had heard the noisy fusillade in the garden. Curiosity

seemed to be their ruling emotion, but even that was under control.

"Is it the Prussians, Messieurs?" asked Linette calmly. "Has the war

really begun?" Her face, and Magda's too, seemed a trifle colorless in

the failing evening light, but her voice was steady.

"Magda," said Warner, "the men outside our garden who fired at Mr.

Halkett are certainly Germans. He and I mean to keep them out of this

house if they attempt to enter it. So you and Linette had better go

very quietly to the cellar and remain there, because there may be some

more firing----"

"I? The cellar! When Prussians are outside!" exclaimed Magda. "Ma

foi! I think Linette and I can be of better use than hiding in the

cellar. Linette! Set water to boil in both kettles! I have my dishes

to wash. The Prussians had better not interfere with me when I have

dishes to wash!"

"Keep away from the windows," added Warner to Linette. "There are iron

bars on all the lower windows, aren't there?"

"Yes, Monsieur Warner. If the front door holds, they cannot get in."

Halkett, at the telephone, called back through the dim hallway to

Warner:

"Somebody has cut the telephone wire. I can't do anything with the

instrument!"

Philippa, still clasping Ariadne, had betrayed no sign of fear or

excitement.

"If somebody would tell me what to do," she began--but Warner quickly

drew her into the office of the inn, which was really the inner cafe and

bar.

"Stay here," he said. "Those men outside might open fire on us at any

moment. Don't go near a window. Do you promise?"

The girl seated herself obediently and began to stroke the cat, her eyes

serenely fixed on Warner.

Halkett had gone to the floor above to lurk by one of the windows giving

on the garden. When Warner came up with a box of cartridge clips, the

Englishman, filling his pockets, remarked quietly:

"They're over the wall already, and dodging about among the fruit

trees--four of them. There were two others. Perhaps you had better

keep an eye on the front door, if you really insist on being mixed up

with this mess I'm in."

"Do you suppose those fellows will be silly enough to attack the house?"

asked the American incredulously.

Halkett nodded:

"They are desperate, you see. I can understand why. They know that war

is likely to be declared within the next few hours. If they don't get

me now they won't stand much chance later. That's why I'm prepared for

anything on their part."

Warner walked swiftly back toward the front, cutting the cords of the

latticed window blinds in every room, so that they fell full length.

"No lights in the house!" he called down over the banisters; "and keep

away from the windows, everybody! Philippa, do you hear me?"

"I understand; I shall tell them to light no candles," came the

untroubled voice of Philippa.

"Are _you_ all right down there?"

"Yes, _I_ am. But the cat is still quite frightened, poor darling."

In spite of his anxiety, Warner laughed as he reloaded.

Outdoors there still remained sufficient light to see by. Flat against

the wall, pistol in hand, he cautiously reconnoitered the dusky roadway

in front of the house, then, leaning further out, he ventured to look

down between lattice and sill at the doorstep below. A mound of dry hay

had been piled against the door.

"Get out of there!" he shouted, catching a glimpse of two shadowy

figures skulking toward the doorway arch.

His reply was a red flash which split the dusk, another, and another;

the window glass above him flew into splinters under the shower of

bullets; the persiennes jerked and danced.

But the men who stood pouring bullets in his direction had been obliged

to drop double armfuls of faggots. One of these men, still firing as he

ran, took cover behind a poplar tree across the road; the other man

flattened himself against the wall of the house, so far under the door

arch that no shot could reach him from an upper window unless the

marksman exposed himself.

Standing so, he lighted a chemical match and tossed it, flaring, on the

heap of hay piled high against the door; and almost at the same instant

a boilerful of hot water splashed through the bars of the lower window

beside him, scalding and soaking him; and he bounded out into the road

with a yell of astonishment and pain.

The hay, instantly on fire, sent a cloud of white thick smoke billowing

along the facade of the house, then burst into flame; but Linette and

Magda dashed water on it from the lower windows, and the red blaze

leaped and died.

Then, from the rear of the house, the dry rattle of Halkett's automatic

broke out, and the pattering racket of pistol shots redoubled when other

automatics crackled from the garden. Thick as hailstones pelting a tin

roof the bullets clanged on the iron rear door, filling the house with

deafening dissonance.

Halkett, peering out through his lattice into the dusk, ceased firing.

A few moments longer the door reechoed the bullets' impact; then all

sound ceased, the silence still vibrating metallic undertones.

Prowling from window to window, Warner, pistol lifted, peered warily

from the shelter of the lowered lattice blinds.

One man still crouched behind the poplar tree; the other, he thought,

was lying in the long grass of the roadside ditch.

"Are you all right, Halkett?" he called back through the stinging fumes

of the smokeless powder which filled the hallway.

"Quite fit, thanks. How is it with you?"

"Still gayly on the job. I didn't hit anybody. I didn't try to."

"Nor I. Did you ever see such obstinacy and determination? Very

German, isn't it?"

"Perfectly.... They're keeping rather too quiet to suit me. What do

you suppose they're up to?"

But neither he nor the Englishman could discover any movement or hear

any sound around the house. And it had now become too dark to see

anything very clearly.

Philippa appeared mounting the stairs, looking for Ariadne who had

scrambled out of her arms during the fusillade.

Warner nodded to her from where he was standing guard. She came up

quietly behind him, stood for a moment with both hands around his left

arm--a silent figure in the dusk, friendly as a well-bred dog, and as

winningly unconscious of self. Her cheek, resting lightly against her

hands, where they clasped his arm, pressed a trifle closer before she

went away.

And while he stood there, perplexedly conscious of this youthful

affection, and listening to every slightest sound, suddenly he heard her

voice, startled, calling out to him from a bedroom on the east side of

the house.

As he entered the room, running, a man outside on a garden ladder kicked

in the window panes, drew back his heavy foot, sent it crashing again

through the wooden frame, and lurched forward across the sill, only to

be held there, fighting, in the grasp of Philippa.

Behind them another man on the ladder was already struggling to fling

his leg over the sill; the head and shoulders of a third appeared just

behind him, menacing with uplifted pistol any interference.

Already Philippa had been dragged headlong half-way through the

shattered window, and the man whom she had seized was endeavoring to

fling her down in the flower bed below, when Warner, leaping forward,

hit him heavily in the face and caught the girl's shoulders, jerking her

back into the room as her assailant's grasp on her waist relaxed.

The man with the pistol had not been able to use it; he staggered, his

weapon fell, and he clung with both hands to the rungs as Philippa's

assaulter went tumbling down the ladder, carrying with him the man

directly behind him. And the next moment Warner had upset the ladder,

sprung back, and pulled Philippa with him down on the floor.

A hurricane of bullets swept through the shattered window above them;

Halkett, from his latticed vantage, was firing, too.

The girl lay panting beside him, silent, her head across his arm.

"Are you hurt?" he whispered.

"Are _you_?"

"No; answer me!" he repeated impatiently.

"He was--very rough. I don't think I am hurt," she breathed.

"You plucky little thing!"

She pressed her cheek against his arm.

"Are you contented with me?" she whispered.

The shots had ceased. After a long interval of quiet, Warner ventured

to creep to the window and look through a corner of the ragged lattice

blind. Little by little he raised himself to his knees, peered out and

finally over.

The ladder lay there just below in the garden path; the men were gone.

And, even as he looked, the staccato noise of departing motor cycles

broke out like a startling volley of rifle fire in the night.

For an hour he stood on guard there, with the girl Philippa crouching

beside him on the floor. From time to time he called cautiously:

"All well here!"

And the Englishman from the front windows always answered:

"All well here!"

Finally:

"Halkett!" he called. "I believe they've cut away for good!"

Halkett presently appeared in the hallway, coming from the front of the

house, as Philippa rose to her knees and stood up, a trifle dazed.

"Warner," he whispered, "a dozen horsemen have just ridden up in front

of our house. They look like French gendarmes to me, but it's so dark

outside that I am not quite certain. Will you take a look at them?"

Warner ran to the front and gazed out. The road below was filled with

mounted gendarmes, their white aiguillettes plainly visible in the dark.

Two had already descended from their horses, and while one held an

electric torch the other was busily nailing a big placard to the front

door of the inn. His hammer strokes rang out sharply in the darkness.

It took only a moment for him to complete his business; the electric

torch shifted, flashed upward, was extinguished.

"Mount!" came the quick order from the shadowy peloton of horsemen; up

on their high saddles popped the two troopers; there came a trample of

hoofs, the dull clank of sabres, and away they galloped into the

darkness.

Warner turned slowly, looked hard at Halkett, who merely nodded in reply

to the silent question.

Philippa slipped downstairs in front of them and began to unlatch the

door, as Linette and Magda appeared from the kitchen carrying lighted

candles.

Then, when the front door had swung open, the little group gathered in

front of it and read on the placard, by flickering candlelight, the

decree of the Government of Republican France.

It was the order for general mobilization.

The nation was already at war.

*CHAPTER XIII*

A pale streak of daybreak along the eastern hills, a blackbird piping,

then that intense stillness which heralds the sun.

In mid-heaven the last star-drops melted, washed out in the grey silver

of the sky; a light breeze sighed through the trees, and, sighing, died.

Then, above earth, a sudden misty glory of gold and rose; and through

it, as through a veil, the sword-edge of the celestial scimitar curved

up, glittering.

Thus dawned the year of war on Sais.

But the awakening world of summer did not seem to comprehend; the

yellow-haired lad who drove his cows to pasture halted to read the

placard on the door of the inn, then, whistling his dog to heel, ran

forward after his slowly moving herd.

The miller of Sais drove by on his way to the mill, drew rein to read

the placard, looked up at the bullet-shattered window above, then jogged

on, his furrowed features unaltered, his aged eyes fixed on his horse's

ears.

One or two washerwomen on the way to the meadow pool stood gracefully

regarding the poster, flat baskets of clothes balanced on their heads;

then moved on through the golden sunrise, still graceful, unhurried,

exchanging leisurely comments on life and death as they walked.

In the kitchen of the Golden Peach, Magda was astir, and presently

Linette appeared, very sleepy. As they went about the routine business

to which they had been bred, they too exchanged tranquil views

concerning emperors and kings and the mortality of all flesh. Also they

took counsel together regarding the return of Madame Arlon, the ultimate

necessity of summoning a glazier from Ausone, the damage done in the

garden by the ladder.

The door of Philippa's bedroom remained closed; Warner's door also. But

Halkett, his hands in his pockets, was out at sunrise, pacing the road

in front of the inn, sometimes looking up at the shot-riddled windows,

or at the placard on the front door, or along the road at the telephone

wires which appeared to be intact as far as he could see.

But somewhere they had been cut, and communication still remained

interrupted.

Deeply worried over the non-appearance of Gray, the cutting of the

telephone wires now became a matter of serious concern to him. He

scarcely knew how to act in his sudden isolation, and, though his

instructions held him at Sais until further orders, the decree for

general mobilization would have started him off for Paris except for one

thing. That was the continued absence of Gray and the possibility that

something alarming had happened to him.

He could not take his envelope and start for England until he had met

Gray or some authorized messenger from Gray. He had not explained this

to Warner.

But the truth was that what plans he carried were useless without the

interlocking plans carried by Gray. All the eggs had not been trusted to

a single basket. And, vice versa, the information carried by Gray was of

no practical account until supplemented by the contents of the long,

thin envelope.

Gray's papers and his, taken together, were of vital importance to

England or to any enemy of England; separate they could be of no use to

anybody, enemy or ally.

The determined attack on him the night before proved that others besides

himself understood this. And it also made him realize the more clearly

that since he had parted from Gray in Antwerp, the latter had been as

open to such attacks as had he. The question now was: had they caught

Gray? If so, it must have occurred within the last thirty-six hours,

because he had talked over the telephone to Gray the evening of his own

arrival at Sais.

But since that conversation, which ended with the understanding that

Gray should set out on his motor cycle for Sais, not a word had he heard

concerning his colleague, except that his cap had been found on the road

south of Sais, and that the condition of the roadside bank, and a few

drops of blood, gave evidence of an accident--if, indeed, it had been an

accident.

Nor had Halkett any idea who it was that had called him up on the

telephone to tell him this.

As he stood there, looking down the road, terribly perplexed and filled

with keenest apprehensions concerning his colleague, far away through

the vista of poplars and telephone poles something white glimmered in

the sunlit road.

It was the white cornette of a Sister of Charity; after a few minutes

Halkett recognized the advancing figure and walked forward to meet her.

The color of early morning freshened her youthful cheeks, framed by the

snowy wimple. She extended a friendly hand to him in salutation, as he

came up and uncovered.

"At such an hour, Monsieur, only birds and Sisters of Charity are

supposed to be on the wing. Is it curiosity that has awakened you to

see how the sun really looks when it rises?"

But as she spoke she detected the deep anxiety which his smile masked,

and her own face became responsively serious.

"Have you had bad news?" she asked gently.

"Worse--I have had no news at all. Are you going to the inn?"

"Yes."

"May I help you gather your flowers?" he asked.

"Thank you--if you care to."

They walked on in silence, skirted the garden wall westward, then north

to the bullet-splintered green door.

Immediately she noticed the scars of the fusillade, gazed at them

curiously for a moment, then laid a questioning forefinger across a

bullet hole.

And while she stood so, he told her in a few words what had occurred the

night before--told her everything, including the posting of the notice

ordering a general mobilization.

She listened, her finger still resting over the shot hole, her calm face

raised to his. And, when he ended:

"Then it is war already," she said quietly.

"War has not been declared.... Yes, it is virtually war. Why not say

so?"

She nodded; he pushed open the heavy little door, and Sister Eila bent

her white-coiffed head and stepped lightly into the garden.

For a while she moved slowly along the flower-bordered paths, as though

uncertain what to choose from among the perfumed thickets, then, setting

her ozier basket on the edge of the walk, she knelt down before the

white clove pinks; and Halkett dropped on his knees beside her.

They worked there together, exchanging scarcely a word, slowly filling

the basket which lay between them.

Ariadne came up with a cheery mew of greeting, and after marching around

and rubbing herself against Halkett, mounted to his shoulders and

settled down, purring like a teakettle beside his ear.

When the basket was filled, Sister Eila stood up and straightened her

shoulders, and Halkett rose too, the cat still perched on his shoulder.

He lifted the flower-heaped basket and set it in the shade of the arbor;

Sister Eila seated herself and Halkett sat down on the stone steps at

her feet.

After a silence, made resonant with Ariadne's loudly cadenced purring,

Sister Eila clasped her hands in her lap and looked steadily down at the

heap of flowers in the green ozier basket.

"What is going to happen?" she asked in a low voice. "If there is to be

a war, it will come here, I suppose."

"I am afraid so."

"Yes; Sais cannot escape."

"The Vosges are too near," he nodded. "So is Ausone. So is the Rhine,

for that matter." He glanced up at her from where he sat caressing

Ariadne. "Belgium also is too near, Sister Eila."

"You believe _they_ will arrive that way?"

"I feel very certain of it. And this means that England moves."

"Where?"

"To the firing line."

"With France?"

"Yes, Sister."

She said quietly:

"That is as it should be, Mr. Halkett. The two great wardens of

European liberty should stand together in its defense."

"They've got to stand for _each other_," he said, "--whatever else they

stand for."

"Alsace--Lorraine--I think this is to be a very holy war--for France,"

she murmured to herself.

He said nothing. He was not very clear concerning the exact amount of

holiness involved, but he knew that war had now become a necessity to

England, if she meant to retain the autocracy of the seas.

"We're bound to go in," he remarked, stroking Ariadne; "there's nothing

else left for us to do. And if they don't give us an excuse by invading

Belgium, we'll go in anyway. That's the meaning of all this! It has

only one real meaning. The 'Day' they've been drinking to so long

is--Today! This entire matter has got to be settled once and for all.

And that's the truth, Sister Eila."

He sat for a while silent, gazing out across the quiet garden. Then,

again:

"As for Sais, if there is an invasion of France, it must pass this way:

if the Vosges are to be defended, Sais will see war."

"That will be very sad for us," she said. "It seems as though there

were already enough violence and misery in the quarries--enough of

wretchedness and poverty. If the quarrymen are called to the colors

with their classes, and if the quarries and cement works close, I don't

know what is to become of our school."

"You said that it is a free school."

"Yes, but the children live elsewhere, and are clothed and fed

elsewhere. Except at noontime, we do not feed them. If we had money to

provide beds and food, the school is large enough to shelter the

children. However, I suppose we shall hear from the rue de Bac--the

mother house, you know?"

She rose, picked up her basket of flowers, and Halkett also stood up.

"Good-by," she said. "Thank you for helping.... I--I suppose you do not

remain very long in Sais?"

"I don't know how long."

She inclined her young head gravely.

They walked together to the green door in the wall, and again her eyes

became riveted on the bullet marks.

"Perhaps," she said, "you will have time to--to come to the school again

before you leave Sais? ... Unless you think it dangerous----"

He looked up, then away from her.

"I'll come--to the school."

"Then--it is au revoir, I hope."

He stood uncovered, holding open the door, and, as she passed in front

of him, he took from her basket a white clove pink. She saw what he

did, and halted instinctively to give him his choice. Suddenly, without

any reason, her cheeks flushed brightly; she bent her head and stepped

quickly through the archway, leaving him standing there with the dull

color deepening in his sun-tanned face.

Warner discovered him still standing where she had left him, the white

blossom hanging from his clenched fist.

"Well," he said, "how did you sleep after that villainous business of

last night?"

"Thanks, I slept," replied Halkett, rousing himself.

They went into the arbor together, and presently Linette came out of the

house carrying their coffee.

"Where is your little friend Philippa?" inquired the Englishman with an

effort.

"In bed, I fancy. Linette has just taken up her cafe-au-lait. I think

the child is feeling the reaction."

"No wonder. Plucky little thing!"

"Yes. But what on earth am I going to do with her, Halkett? Ought I to

wait until that old scoundrel Wildresse comes here or telephones? Ought

I to try to persuade her to go back to that cabaret? Ought I to

telephone that she is safe here?"

"The wires are cut."

"I know. Somebody will fix them, though. Do you think I'd better try

to persuade Philippa to let me drive her over to Ausone in the trap? If

I'm to keep her, I ought to have an interview with Wildresse, or she and

I will get into trouble."

"Oh, Lord!" said Halkett. "That's your affair. Listen, Warner, I'm so

worried about Gray I can't think of anything else. Something serious

certainly has happened to him. And until those wires are repaired, I

shan't know what to do. Is there any other way we can communicate with

Ausone?"

"None that I know of, unless somebody goes over to Ausone. I can do

that if you like. I can drive over in the trap. Of course the

telephone people already know that there's a break on the line, and no

doubt they're out now looking for it. We'll be in communication with

Ausone by noon, I expect."

For a little while they exchanged views concerning the attack of the

previous night, and Halkett was of the opinion that the order for

mobilization would now restrain any further violence on the part of

those who had been following him, if, indeed, it did not entirely clear

them out of France. And he expressed a desire for the envelope.

So Warner went into the house, lifted the partly hardened skin of white

lead from the canvas, disinterred the envelope, wiped it clean, and

brought it out to Halkett. The Englishman put it into his breast

pocket.

"It was perfectly safe where it was," remarked the other. "It's an

invitation to murder where it is now."

"Yes, but it's no good to anybody unless Gray turns up. I wish I knew

what had become of that man. I think I'll try the telephone again----"

He rose and walked swiftly toward the house, Ariadne trotting at his

heels. Even as he approached, he heard the telephone bell ringing, and

hastened his steps toward the house.

But as he entered, the girl Philippa stepped into the hallway, and he

caught a glimpse of a slim, barefooted figure, holding with one hand the

folds of a shabby chamber robe around her, and with the other the

receiver.

"What?" she cried in answer to a question. "Yes, I am Philippa.... Oh!

It's _you_. I thought so.... What do you desire of me?"

What Wildresse desired of the girl Philippa intimately concerned

Halkett. He coolly remained to listen.

"No!" she said in her clear, emotionless voice. "I shall not come back!

... Very well; if the Government agents want me, they can find me

here.... You may threaten me with arrest by the Government if you

choose, but I know that you are more afraid of the Government than I

am.... _Why_ shouldn't I say it! Yes, I know quite well that we are

going to have war.... You say that the Germans are already across the

Duchy? Skirmishing before Longwy? Very well; why don't you inform

_one_ of your Governments? ... No, I won't keep quiet! No, no, _no_!

... What you say does not frighten me.... I refuse to return! ...

Because I am now in an honest business for myself.... Yes, it is an

honest business. I am permitted to pose for an artist of great

distinction.... What you _say_ does not frighten me; but what you _are_

does cause me some apprehension. And knowing as much as I do know about

you, I seriously advise you to leave France.... No, I haven't said such

a thing to anybody else, but I am likely to, so you had better hasten to

leave for America. Yes, I will tell you why, if you wish. It is because

there are always two millstones when anything is to be crushed. War is

now beginning to bring those two stones together. The mill wheel

already is turning! When the two millstones meet, the little meal worm

that has remained between them so long in safety is going to be

crushed.... Oh, yes, you _do_ know what I mean! You also know whom I

mean. Very well, then, if you don't I'll tell you this much: _double

wages_ never are paid by a _single_ master. I learned that yesterday

when you gave me the _wrong_ paper to forward to Paris with the others.

Fortunately for you, I read it. I then burnt it to ashes and took my

clothes and my punt and my departure! I might have continued to endure

what you had accustomed me to. But _two_ masters! Faugh! The horror

of it! ... Fear? If you really think _that_ of me, then you have never

really known me. It was disgust and shame that drove me toward

liberty.... Yes, this that I say is final.... You _dare_ not interfere!

... Then I'll say this: if you do not leave France now, _at once_, in

this moment of her peril, I _will_ tell what I know to the first soldier

of France who crosses my path! ... I am not afraid of you, I tell

you.... Believe me, you are well rid of me.... I warn you, in God's

name, to let me alone!"

She hung up the receiver, turned, and mounted the stairs with flying

feet, but at the top landing Halkett's quiet voice halted her.

"I was listening, Philippa. What that man says or does may cost me

dear. What did he want of you?"

"Mr. Halkett," leaning swiftly toward him over the handrail above--"he

is the most ignoble of creatures! And after five years I learned only

yesterday that he sells his filthy secrets in _two_ markets!--Three,

perhaps; _I_ don't know how many! And I no longer care! It ceases to

interest _me_!"

"Wait! It interests _me_!"

"But I can't say any more to you than I have----"

"Why not?"

"I don't know. _Can_ I? You know better than I. But I don't wish to

betray anybody, even such a man as--as----"

"Wildresse?"

"Yes."

"Is he also betraying France?"

"I--I don't know. I suppose it is that. I haven't yet tried to

comprehend it----"

"What was the paper you started to forward, then read, and finally

burned?"

"It was a letter directed to a Mr. Esser. He is a German."

"The head of the Esser Cement Works?"

"Yes."

"What was in the letter?"

"A list of the guns in the Ausone Fort and a plan of the emplacements on

tissue paper.... Perhaps I am stupid, but I could guess what a German

wanted with a plan of a French fort! It was enough for me! I took my

punt and my effects and I departed!"

"You burnt the letter?"

"In my candle. Also, I wrote on a piece of paper, 'You damned traitor!'

and I pinned it on his door. Then I went out by the garden door with my

leather trunk on my head!"

"Come down when you are dressed," said Halkett, and walked back through

the hallway to the garden.

"Warner," he said, "this old spider, Wildresse, is certainly a bad lot.

I'd have him arrested by French gendarmes if I were certain that England

is going in. But I dare not chance it until I'm sure. Perhaps I dare

not chance it at all, because if he has had anything to do with Gray's

disappearance, as I am beginning to suspect, it would not do to have the

French authorities examine my papers."

"Why?"

"Because--if they have already seized Gray's papers, they will secure

military information which perhaps my Government might not care to have

even an ally possess. I don't know whether Gray is living or dead; I

don't know who has Gray's papers at this instant. That's the trouble.

And I'm hanged if I know what to do! I'm stumped, and that's the

devilish truth!"

He took a few quick, uncertain steps along the flower beds, turned, came

back to the arbor where Warner was seated:

"It's a mess!" he said. "Even if agents employed by Wildresse have

robbed Gray--murdered him, perhaps, to do it--I don't know what

Wildresse means to do with Gray's papers."

"What!"

Halkett nodded:

"Yes, he's _that_ kind! Pleasant, isn't it? If he has Gray's papers,

it may be France that will pay him for them; it may be that Germany has

already bought and paid for them. In either case, carrying the papers I

carry, I hesitate to ask for his arrest. Do you understand?"

"Very clearly. If there is any way you can think of to get hold of this

scoundrel, I'll be glad to help. Shall we drive over to Ausone and try?"

"You're very kind, Warner. I don't know; I want to think it over----"

He turned and walked back to the house, entered the hallway, unhooked

the telephone, and finally was given a connection--not the one he had

asked for.

A voice said curtly:

"During mobilization no private messages are transmitted." Click! And

the connection was severed. Again and again he made the attempt; no

further attention was paid to his ringing. Finally he hung up the

receiver and started to go out through the front doorway.

As he crossed the threshold, a young man in tweeds rode up on a bicycle,

stepped off, and, lifting his cap to Halkett, said politely:

"Monsieur Halkett, if you please? Is he still residing here at the

Golden Peach?"

Halkett's right hand dropped carelessly into the side pocket of his

coat. When he had cocked his automatic, he said pleasantly:

"I am Mr. Halkett."

The young man said smilingly, in perfect English:

"Do you expect a friend, Mr. Halkett?"

"Perhaps."

"Possibly you expect a Mr. Reginald Gray?"

"Possibly."

"He has been injured."

"Really?"

"Yes, rather seriously. He lost control of his motor cycle two nights

ago. He was on his way to join you here."

"Indeed?"

"So he told me before he became unconscious."

"Is he still unconscious?"

"No, but he is too weak to move."

"Where is he?"

"At my house, in Bois d'Avril. I was motoring that evening, and I found

him in the road, insensible. So I lifted him into my car, slung his

motor cycle on behind, and went top speed for home. He's in my own

house in Bois d'Avril. The physician thinks he will recover."

"What is your telephone number?" asked Halkett bluntly.

The young man gave it, adding that the transmission of private messages

had, unfortunately, been suspended during mobilization. Which Halkett

knew to be true.

"Very well," he said, "I shall go to Bois d'Avril at once----"

"It is not necessary; I have a message for you, and some papers from Mr.

Gray."

"Really?"

The young man smiled, drew from his inner pocket a long, thin envelope,

and handed it to Halkett. The latter held it in his hand, looking

steadily into the stranger's pleasant face for a full minute, then he

coolly opened the envelope.

Inside were the missing papers concerning the Harkness shell, complete.

There could be no doubt concerning their identity; he recognized them at

a glance. A deep sigh of relief escaped him.

He said:

"There's no use trying to thank you----"

"It's quite all right," interrupted the young man smilingly. "If you

don't mind offering me a drink--the road over was rather dusty----"

"Leave your wheel there and come in!" exclaimed Halkett cordially,

stepping aside in the doorway.

The young man laid his bicycle against the steps, turned with a smile,

and entered the doorway.

As he passed, he turned like lightning and struck Halkett full between

the eyes with his clenched fist.

*CHAPTER XIV*

The terrific impact of the blow sent Halkett reeling across the

threshold. Partly stunned, he caught at the banisters, groping

instinctively for the pistol. And already he had contrived to drag it

clear of his side pocket when another blow sent him staggering back

against the stair rail; the pistol flew out of his hand and went

spinning down the hallway over the polished floor.

As Halkett crashed into the banisters and fell full length, Philippa, in

her red skirt and bodice, appeared on the stairs above.

The young man, who had dropped on his knees beside Halkett, and who had

already torn open his coat, caught sight of the girl as she flew past

him down the stairs; and he leaped to his feet to intercept her.

On the newel-post stood a tall, wrought-iron lamp. As he blocked her way

she hesitated an instant, then threw all her weight against the heavy

metal standard, pushing with both hands; and the iron lamp swayed

forward and fell.

As the young man leaped clear of the falling fixture, Philippa vaulted

the stair rail into the hallway below. He saw instantly what she was

after; both sprang forward to snatch the pistol.

As she stooped for it and seized it, he caught her arm; and she twisted

around on him, beating his head and breast with her free hand while he

strove desperately to master the outstretched arm which still clutched

Halkett's pistol.

To and fro they swayed over the slippery floor of the hallway, until he

forced back her arm to the breaking point. Then the pistol clattered to

the floor.

Instantly she kicked it under a tall secretary, where the register was

kept. Holding her at arm's length with one hand, he managed to drag the

heavy piece of furniture on its casters away from the wall far enough to

uncover the pistol.

As he stooped for the weapon, she tore herself free, kicked it away from

beneath his fingers, which already touched it, and, wrenching a framed

engraving from the wall behind her, hurled it at him with both hands.

He leaped nimbly aside to avoid it, but another picture followed, and

then a mantel clock and two vases went smashing against the secretary

behind which he had taken shelter. And suddenly she seized the

secretary itself, and with one supreme effort tipped it over toward him,

driving him again from cover and from the vicinity of the weapon they

both were fighting to secure.

As the big oak secretary fell, and the glass doors crashed into

splinters, she stooped, snatched Halkett's pistol from the floor, and

crept forward along the base of the staircase. But the young man had

whipped out a revolver of his own, and was now standing astride of

Halkett's body, panting, speechless, but menacing her with gesture and

weapon.

She shrank aside and crouched low under the staircase, resting there,

disheveled, bleeding, half naked, struggling for breath, but watching

his every movement out of brilliant, implacable eyes.

Every time he ventured to bend down over Halkett, or make the slightest

motion toward the fallen man's breast pockets, Philippa stopped his

operations with leveled pistol, forcing him to spring to his feet again.

Suddenly, behind him in the doorway, appeared Magda and Linette, coming

from the meadow across the road, carrying between them a basket of

freshly washed linen. Like a flash he turned on them and drove them

back and out of doors at the point of his weapon, then whirled about,

aimed full at Philippa, slammed and bolted the front door behind him,

and, covering her with his revolver, ran forward to the foot of the

stairs, where his victim still lay unconscious. Catching the senseless

man by the sleeve, he strove desperately to rip the coat from the inert

body, while keeping his revolver pointed at Philippa's hiding place

under the stairs.

As he stood there, tugging furiously at the fallen man's coat, into the

rear of the hallway ran Warner, his automatic lifted. Both men fired at

the same instant, and the intruder dropped Halkett's arm. Then he ran

for the stairway. Up the stairs he leaped, shooting back at Warner as

he mounted to the landing above; and the American sped after him,

followed by Philippa, as far as the foot of the stairway.

Here Warner hesitated for a few moments, then he began cautiously to

negotiate the stairway, creeping step by step with infinite precaution.

When at last he had disappeared on the landing above, Philippa,

listening breathlessly below, heard Halkett stir and then groan.

As she turned, the Englishman lifted himself on one elbow, fumbled

instinctively in his breast pockets, and drew out two envelopes.

"Take them to Sister Eila!--Hurry, Philippa----" He passed a shaking

hand across his eyes, swayed to a sitting posture, caught at the stair

rail, and dragged himself to his feet.

"Give me that pistol," he muttered. She handed it to him; he groped in

his pockets for a few moments, found a clip, reloaded, and, reeling

slightly, walked with her aid as far as the front door. Philippa opened

it for him.

"Where is this man?" he asked vaguely.

"Mr. Warner followed him upstairs."

He pressed his hand over his battered head, nodded, extended the two

envelopes to her.

"Sister Eila," he repeated.

Philippa took the papers; he straightened his shoulders with a visible

effort; then, steadying himself by the handrail, he started to ascend

the stairs.

The girl watched him mount slowly to the landing above, saw him

disappear, stood listening a moment longer.

Magda and Linette came stealing into the hallway; Philippa pointed to

the telephone.

"Call the gendarmes at Ausone!" she whispered. "I must go to----"

A shot from above cut her short. All three women stood gazing up at the

landing in startled silence.

"Quick--the telephone! The gendarmerie!" cried Philippa.

Magda ran to the box; and at the same instant a man climbed over the

stair well, dropped to the hallway below, swung around on Magda, pushed

her violently from the telephone, and, seizing the receiver, ripped it

out by the roots.

Philippa had already turned and slipped through the doorway, both

envelopes tightly clutched in her hand. Directly in her path stood the

intruder's bicycle; and she seized the handles, righted it, and leaped

into the saddle before he could reach the front door.

He ran up the road behind her for a little distance, but she had already

found her balance and was increasing her speed over the smooth, white

highway. Then the young man halted, carefully leveled his revolver,

steadied his aim with his left elbow, and, standing in mid-road, he

deliberately directed a stream of lead after the crouching fugitive.

The last bullet from his magazine sent her veering widely from her path;

the machine sheered in a half-circle, staggered, slid down into the

grassy ditch, flinging the girl off sideways among the weeds.

Philippa got up slowly, as though dazed or hurt. The young man hurried

forward, reloading his weapon as he ran, but a shot from behind warned

him away from the trail of the limping girl, who was now trying to

escape on foot.

Whirling in his tracks, he stood for a second glaring at Halkett and

Warner, who were advancing, shooting as they came on; then, with a

savage glance at Philippa, he fired at her once more, turned, mounted

the roadside bank in a single leap, and ran swiftly along the hedge,

evidently looking for an opening into the field beyond.

When he found one, he wriggled through and was off like a hare, across

the fields and headed for the river, before Halkett and Warner could

discover his avenue of escape. Checked for a few moments, they ranged

the thorny hedge up and down, like baffled beagles. They had overrun

the trail.

Warner was already within speaking distance of Philippa when the girl

hailed him.

"Are you hurt?" he called across to her, where she stood knee-deep among

the roadside weeds, trying to draw together the points of her torn

bodice, to cover her throat and shoulders.

"The tire burst. I have a few scratches!"

"Did he get the papers?" shouted Halkett.

She drew both envelopes from her bosom, and shook them high with a

gesture of defiance. Then, replacing them, she made a funnel of her

hands and called out to them:

"He crawled under the hedge by that third telephone pole behind you!

You have come too far this way! No--the _other_ pole! Wait a moment,

Mr. Warner----"

Still calling out her directions in her clear, calm voice, she started

to limp down the road toward them; and Warner glanced back at her for a

moment; then he suddenly flung up his arm and shouted:

"Philippa! Look out for that car behind you!"

The girl turned, saw the automobile coming, stepped aside into the ditch

as a cloud of white dust obscured her.

Before she realized that the car had stopped, three men had jumped out

into the ditch and caught hold of her.

Warner heard her cry out; started to run toward her; saw her flung

struggling into the car; saw Wildresse rise and strike her with his

great fist and knock her headlong across the back seat, where she lay,

her disheveled head hanging down over the rear of the tonneau. Then the

car started. As she hung there, blood dripping from her mouth, she

reached blindly toward her breast, drew out the envelopes, and dropped

them in the wake of the moving car.

They fluttered along behind it for a moment, drawn into the dusty

suction, then they were whirled away right and left into the roadside

ditches.

Evidently nobody in the car except Philippa knew what she had done, for

the car, at top speed, dashed on toward the north.

Halkett ran up and found Warner gazing vacantly after the receding

machine, pistol leveled, but not daring to shoot. Then they both saw

Wildresse jerk the half senseless girl upright, saw him strike her again

with the flat of his huge hand so heavily that she crumpled and dropped

back into the corner of the seat.

"God!" whispered Halkett at Warner's elbow. "Did you see that?"

Warner, as white as death, made no reply. The ear had vanished, but he

still stood there staring at the distant cloud of dust settling slowly

in the highway. Presently Halkett walked forward, picked up the two

envelopes, pocketed them, and returned swiftly to where the American

still stood, his grim features set, the red stain from his bitten lip

streaking his chin.

"Warner?"

"Yes?" he answered steadily.

"We'd better start after that man at once."

"Certainly."

Halkett said:

"Have your horse hooked up as soon as you can.... I think----" His

voice trembled, but he controlled it. "I am horribly afraid for that

child.... He would cut her throat if he dared."

Warner turned a ghastly visage to his companion:

"Why do you say that?"

"Because she knows enough about him to send him before a firing squad,"

said Halkett. "That's the trouble, Warner."

They turned and walked rapidly toward the inn.

Warner spoke presently in an altered voice, but with the mechanical

precision of a man afraid of emotion and any wavering of self-control.

"I'm going to Ausone at once to find her.... Wherever I find her I shall

take her.... It makes no difference to me who objects. She is going to

have her chance in life.... I shall see to that."

Halkett drew a deep breath:

"Did you ever hear of such a plucky battle as she gave that rascal after

he got me? I never shall forget what she has done."

They entered the front door of the inn, almost running; Warner continued

on toward the garden and the stable beyond; Halkett halted at the

telephone, gazed grimly at the ruined instrument, realized that he was

again isolated, and called impatiently to Linette who, with Magda, was

gathering up and sweeping aside the debris of the wrecked furniture.

"Linette," he said, "would you do something to help me?"

"Willingly, Monsieur."

"Go to the school; say to Sister Eila that I am in real need of her.

Ask her if she could come here at once, because I cannot go to her."

The girl nodded, turned, and went out rapidly by the front way. Halkett

hastened upstairs to his room.

When again he returned, the dogcart had just driven up, and Warner sat

waiting in silence, reins and whip in hand.

But Halkett had a letter to write before he could start; and it was slow

work, because the letter must be written in a cipher, the key to which

was the solar spectrum and the three metallic symbols.

He had scarcely completed his letter when Sister Eila and Linette

entered the hallway together.

The Sister of Charity caught sight of him through the doorway as he rose

from his seat in the empty dining-room; and she instantly went to him.

He thanked Linette, closed the door, and turned to Sister Eila.

"There's nobody else I can trust," he said. "Will you help me?"

"You know I will."

He drew the two envelopes from his breast pocket and handed them to her

in silence. Then he laid on the table the letter which he had just,

written.

"I am obliged to go to Ausone," he said. "It will take me several

hours, I suppose, to go, attend to my business, and return. Could you

remain here at the inn until I can get back?"

"Yes. Sister Felicite is with the children."

"Then this is what you must know and prepare for. If, while I am away, a

man should come here and ask for me, you will show him this letter lying

on the table, and you will say to him that I left it here for a man whom

I have been expecting. You will stand here and watch him while he is

reading this letter. If he really _can_ read it, then he will ask for

pen and ink, and he will _change the punctuation_ of what I have written

on the envelope: '_Ibis, redibis non, morieris in bello._' As I have

punctuated it, it means: 'Thou shalt go, thou shalt not return, thou

shalt die in battle.'

"So if he _can_ read what is _inside_ the envelope, he will erase the

comma after the word _non_, and insert a comma after the word _redibis_.

And the translation will then read: 'Thou shalt go, thou shalt return,

thou shalt _not_ die in battle.' Is all this quite clear to you,

Sister?"

"Perfectly."

"Then, if a man comes here and asks for me, and if you see that he

really has understood the letter which is written in cipher, then, after

he has repunctuated what I have written, give him the other two

envelopes which I have entrusted to you.

"Will you do this for--France, Sister Eila?"

"Yes"--she lifted her grave young eyes--"for France."

Through the open dining-room window Sister Eila watched his departure,

smiling her adieux as the two men turned toward her and uncovered.

Then she seated herself by the window sill and rested her cheek on her

palm, gazing out at the blue sky with vague, enraptured eyes that saw a

vision of beatitude perhaps, perhaps the glimmering aura of an earthly

martyrdom, in the summer sunshine.

And possibly a vision less holy invaded her tranquil trance, for she

suddenly straightened her young shoulders, picked up the crucifix at her

girdle, and gazed upon it rather fixedly.

The color slowly cooled in her cheeks till they were as white as the

spotless wimple that framed them in its snowy oval.

After a while rosary and crucifix fell between her relaxing hands, and

she looked up at the blue foothills of the Vosges with bluer eyes.

The next moment she sprang to her feet, startled. Over the sparkling

hills came sailing through the summer sky a gigantic bird--the most

enormous winged creature she had ever beheld. A moment later the high

clatter of the aeroplane became audible.

*CHAPTER XV*

Wheeling in spirals now above the river meadow, the great, man-made bird

of prey turned and turned, hanging aloft in the sky like a giant hawk,

sweeping in vast circles through the blinding blue, as though searching

every clump and tussock in the fields below for some hidden enemy or

victim.

Louder and louder came the rattling clatter from the sky, nearer swooped

the great plane on wide-stretched wings, until, close to the earth, it

seemed to sheer the very grass blades in the meadow, and the deafening

racket of its engines echoed and reechoed, filling the world with

outrageous and earsplitting noise.

Sister Eila had gone to the front door; Magda and Linette stood behind

her. And they saw the aeroplane alight in the meadow and a hooded

figure, masked in glass and leather, step out, turn its goblin head

toward the inn, then start rapidly toward them across the fields.

He was a tall thin man, and as he crossed the highroad and came toward

them, he lifted the glass and leather mask and drew it back above his

closely-fitting hood.

When he saluted Sister Eila's habit, he came to a full halt and his

heels clicked together. Then he spoke in French, pleasantly, perfectly:

"Mr. Halkett, if you please, Sister. Is he still residing here?"

"Monsieur Halkett has left."

"Oh, I am sorry. Was not Monsieur Halkett expecting a messenger?"

"Have you a message for Monsieur Halkett?"

The airman twisted his pointed, blond mustache:

"I expected that Monsieur Halkett would have a packet for me. Did he

leave none?"

"He left a letter," said Sister Eila.

He bowed ceremoniously:

"Would you be kind enough?"

"Will you not enter?"

"I thank you. If I may be permitted to remain here----" He had kept

continually glancing up and down the road while speaking; and it was

evident that he preferred to remain where he could watch the highway

both ways.

So Sister Eila brought the letter to him, and he bowed again with

tight-waisted ceremony, pocketed it, and asked again for the packet.

"Wait, if you please," she said. "The letter was to be read in my

presence."

"A thousand pardons! I had not understood----"

He drew the sheets of paper from the unsealed envelope, glanced sharply

up and down the highroad, then unfolded the letter.

Sister Eila's eyes were fixed on his face, but his features exhibited no

emotion whatever.

Every few moments he looked up and down the road, then bent his

pleasantly expressionless face again over the sheets in his gloved

hands.

Presently he looked up with a smile:

"I have read it and I understand it. Would you be kind enough to give

me the packet which Monsieur Halkett writes that he has left for me?"

"Please read first what is written on the envelope of this letter," said

Sister Eila very calmly.

He turned over the envelope, read the inscription in Latin, smiled as he

read it.

"Rather an ominous message, is it not, Sister?"

"Do you think so?"

He glanced sharply to right and left, then, still smiling, he read

aloud:

"Thou shalt go, thou shalt _not_ return, thou shalt die in battle----"

He turned his head with a jerk and gazed down the road as though

suddenly startled; at the same instant Sister Eila snatched the letter

from his fingers, sprang inside the house, and slammed the door.

As she bolted it, he threw his weight against it for a moment, then

turned and ran for the meadow where the aeroplane stood.

From a window Sister Eila saw him climb aboard; saw the machine move,

run over the ground like a great beetle, and rise from the grass,

pointing upward and eastward as it took wing and soared low over the

river.

And down the highway, pell-mell, galloped a dozen gendarmes in a storm

of dust and flying pebbles, wheeled in front of the inn, put their

superb horses to the ditch and the cattle gate beyond, and, clearing

both, went tearing away across the fields after the rising aeroplane.

Over the river bank they galloped, straight into the water, their big,

powerful horses wading, thrashing, swimming across; then they were up

the opposite bank and over and away, racing after the ascending

aeroplane.

From it was coming a redoubled rattle now; machine and machine gun were

both spitting fiercely as the winged thing fought upward toward the blue

zone of safety.

The gendarmes drew bridle now and began to shoot upward from their

saddles, then spurred on across the fields, taking ditches and hedges as

they came, until the strange chase was hidden by a distant rise of

ground and the quarry alone remained visible, high winging, still

rising, still pointed eastward toward the Rhine.

Then, far away across the hills, a heavier shot set the August air

vibrating--another, another, others following.

Faster and faster cracked the high-angle guns on the Barrier Forts,

strewing the sky with shrapnel; the aeroplane soared and soared, leaving

behind it a wake dotted with clots of fleece which hung for a while

quite motionless against the intense blue, then slowly dissolved and

vanished in mid-air.

From the Ausone Fort the gunners could hear, far to the southeast, the

sky-cannon banging away on the Barrier Forts; and the telescopes on

their signal towers swung toward the sky line above the foothills of the

Vosges.

But in the town below the fortressed hill no echo of the cannonade

penetrated. Ausone, except in the neighborhood of the railroad and the

office of the _Petit Journal d'Ausone_, lay still and almost deserted in

the August sunshine: a few children played under the trees by the

bridge; a few women sat knitting along the river quay; one or two old

men nodded, half asleep, fishing the deeper pools below the bridge; the

market square remained empty except for a stray dog, tongue lolling,

padding stolidly up the street about his business.

But before the office of the _Petit Journal d'Ausone_ a crowd stood,

covering the sidewalks and overflowing beyond the middle of the street.

Young men and old, women and young girls, were clustered there quietly

watching the bulletin boards.

There was no excitement apparent, no loud talking, no gesticulation:

voices were calm, tones were low; there was almost no movement in the

crowd except when people joined the throng or silently departed.

On one of these bulletin boards was nailed the order for general

mobilization; on the other a terse paragraph announced that on Sunday,

August 2, German soldiers had entered the city of Luxembourg, crossed

the Grand Duchy, and were already skirmishing with Belgian cavalry

around Liege and with French troops before Longwy. In other terms, the

Teutonic invasion had begun; German troops were already on French soil;

for Longwy is the most northern of the Republic's fortifications.

Another paragraph reported that King Albert of Belgium had appealed to

England, and that Sir Edward Grey, in the House of Commons, had prepared

his country for an immediate ultimatum to Germany.

Still a third paragraph informed the populace of Ausone that the British

battle fleet had mobilized and sailed, and that the Empire's land forces

were already preparing to cross the Channel.

And Germany had not yet declared war on either France or Belgium, nor

had England declared war on Germany, nor had Austria, as yet, formally

declared war on Russia, although Germany had.

But there seemed to be no doubt, no confusion in the minds of the

inhabitants of Ausone, concerning what was happening, what had already

happened, and what Fate still concealed behind a veil already growing

transparent enough to see through--already lighted by the infernal

flashes of German rifle fire before Longwy.

Everybody in Ausone knew; everybody in France understood. A great

stillness settled over the Republic, as though the entire land had

paused to kneel a moment before the long day of work began.

There was no effervescence, no voice raised, no raucous shout from

boulevard orators of the psychological moment, no attitudes, no

complaints.

Only, amid the vast silence, as the nation rose serenely from its knees,

millions of flashing eyes were turned toward Alsace and Lorraine--eyes

dimmed for an instant, then instantly clear again--clear and steady as

the sound and logical minds controlling them.

There was no _sonnerie_ from the portcullis, no salvo from parapet or

bastion, no fanfare blared at midday in square or stony street. No

bands of _voyous_ went yelling through boulevards, no seething crowds

choked the cafes or formed a sinister maelstrom around embassies or

government offices.

Down at the Gare de Chalons another crowd had gathered to watch the

young men of Ausone depart. They came alone, or two by two, or in

groups--sticks, bundles, suitcases, valises swinging--with serious,

unruffled features intent upon the business of the long, long business

day that was beginning for them at last.

Some were accompanied by parents, some by wives and children, some by

sweethearts: many had said good-by at home and were walking to the

station with brother or friend, saluting acquaintances en route.

But the mobilizing youths were undemonstrative, chary of gesture--shy,

serious young fellows preoccupied with the business on hand, conscious

that their term of service had equipped them for it--and in their

bearing was that modesty and self-respect which discounts

self-consciousness and self-assertion.

For there was no longer any excuse for France to be either noisy or

dramatic when she went about her business--no reason for posturing, for

epigrams, for attitudes, or for the loud laugh and the louder boast to

bolster faith with mutual and riotous reassurance in the face of an

unknown business venture concerning the conduct of which the entire

nation was excited, ignorant, and unprepared.

The Republic had been both instructed and prepared for the matter of the

business on hand. And was going quietly about it.

In Ausone itself there were few signs of war visible; the exodus of the

young men, the crowd before the bulletins, and the throng at the

station, and perhaps more mounted officers and gendarmes than usual

riding faster than is customary in the peaceful streets of a provincial

town.

But on the roads around the fortified hill dominating the rolling green

landscape in the heart of which Ausone nestled, cavalry patrols were

riding, infantry details tramped through the white dust, military wagons

and motor vans passed under dragoon escort; bridges over the Recollette

were guarded by line soldiers and gendarmes, while sappers and miners

and engineers were busy at every bridge, culvert, and railway cut.

Above the fort slim tentacles of wireless apparatus spread a tracery

against the sky, and a signal tower swam high against the blue. From it

sparkled blinding flashes in code. Officers up there were talking

business to the Barrier Forts, and the heliographs along the Vosges

brilliantly discussed the new business deal with other forts far to the

south and east, relaying reports, rumors, and quotations as far as

Paris, where the directors' meeting was being held; and even as far as

London, where stockholders and directors were gathered to add up profit

and loss, and balance policy against ethics, and reconcile both with

necessity.

In London a King, a Prime Minister, and a First Lord of the Admiralty

were listening to a Sirdar who was laying down the law by wireless to a

President and his Premier.

In St. Petersburg an Emperor was whispering to a priest while the priest

consulted the stars. Signs being favorable, they changed the city's

name to Petrograd, which imperial inspiration dealt a violent slap on

the Kaiser's wrist.

Led westward by a Grand Duke, marching Russia bent several million

reverent heads, awed by this stroke of autocratic genius, and somebody

named a brand of caviar after the Czar of all the Russias. Which holy

tribute, however, built no strategic railroads in the West.

Meanwhile, the spinning world swung on around its orbit; tides rose and

ebbed; the twin sentinels of the skies relieved each other as usual, and

a few billion stars waited patiently for eternity.

Ausone, lying in the sun, was waiting, too, amid its still trees and

ripening fields.

In the summer world around, no hint of impending change disturbed the

calm serenity of that August afternoon--no sense of waiting, no prophecy

of gathering storms. But in men's hearts reigned the breathless

stillness which heralds tempests.

Silently as a kestrel's shadow gliding over the grass, an ominous shade

sped over sunny France, darkening the light in millions of smiling eyes,

subduing speech, stilling all pulses, cautioning a nation's ardent heart

and conjuring its ears to listen and its lips to silence.

And, as France sat silent, listening, hand lightly resting on her hilt,

came the far cry from beyond the Vosges--the voices of her lost

children.

Now she had risen to her feet, loosening the blade in its scabbard. But

she had not yet drawn it; she still stood listening to the distant shots

from Longwy in the north, to the noise of the western winds blowing

across the channel; and always she heard, from the east, the lost voices

of her best beloved, calling, calling her from beyond the Vosges.

As they approached Ausone, driving full speed, Warner and Halkett

encountered the Sais omnibus returning, and drew rein.

In it was the Harem, much annoyed because not permitted to sketch in the

Ausone streets.

They had seen nothing of any touring car containing several men and a

young girl. That did not interest them. What preoccupied their minds

was that they had been sketching in the streets of Ausone, and had been

politely requested to desist by several unappreciative policemen. So

they had collectively shaken the dust of Ausone from their several and

indignant feet, and were now en route to Sais to paint hay stacks.

Requesting to know whether they might still be permitted to paint

haystacks at Sais, Warner offered them no encouragement, pointing out

that Sais was in the zone of future military operations.

In the face of such an outrageous condition of affairs, there is no

doubt that Art shrieked as loudly as did Freedom when her popular hero

fell. Anyway, her devotees now protested in chorus; but Warner advised

them to pack their trunks and go to Paris while the going was good; and

the Sais omnibus rolled away with the Harem still volubly denouncing a

government which dared to interfere with Haystack Art on any pretext

whatever.

As Warner drove forward Halkett said:

"The chances are that the military will requisition that omnibus before

evening. It wouldn't surprise me if they stopped us at the entrance to

Ausone and took your horse and cart."

And it happened as he had feared; red-legged soldiers halted them at the

town entrance; a polite but resolute young officer refused to argue the

matter, but insisted that they descend, accept an official voucher for

the temporary loan of their horse and cart, and continue their journey

on foot.

As yet, however, punts, rowboats, and skiffs were not subject to

requisition by the authorities. Halkett noticed a skiff tied to the

shore near a small house on the river bank; so they climbed a stile,

crossed the newly mown hayfield, and found an old man fishing from his

doorstep in the rear of the house.

For thirty francs they bought the boat outright; the old man shuffled

into the house and returned with the home-made oars; Warner took them;

Halkett pushed off and sprang in; and they pulled away up the river,

breasting a glassy current over which swallows darted and played and

dipped, starring the calm surface with a hundred spreading circles.

Rushes swayed inshore where meadows bordered the Recollette, and dragon

flies with turquoise bodies sailed glittering into the breeze. Trees

swept the surface of the water with tender leaves still untarnished by

the ripening world of waning summer; and in shady coves the cattle stood

to their knees in the crystal flood, staring with moony eyes at the

passing skiff.

Presently Warner sent the skiff inshore, and when it lay floating in the

shadow of the trees under the right bank of the stream, he rested on his

oars.

"The cafe garden is just ahead, around that next turn," he said. "If

you'll take the oars, I'll get out on the bank and look over the

situation."

"Don't you want me?"

"I don't know; I'll see what things look like first. Do you mind?"

"I'll wait if you say so. But there's a rough crowd hanging about that

cafe, as you know."

"I know it," said Warner grimly.

"Are you armed?"

"I certainly am, Halkett. But I don't count on any trouble, because

Wildresse can't afford to make any. If there's a row in that cabaret at

such a time as this, the police will make short work of it. I think

I'll have no difficulty in finding my little friend Philippa and in

taking her out of that miserable place."

Halkett said:

"Don't forget yourself and beat up Wildresse for what we saw him do to

Philippa. You can attend to that later: the idea now is to take the

child back to Sais."

"I'll try to remember," said Warner with a somber glance at his friend.

Then he handed him the oars and, making his way to the stern, leaped

lightly to the grassy bank.

*CHAPTER XVI*

Warner entered a paved lane leading up the slope, between two high,

stucco walls. It bore the name, "Impasse d'Alcyon," painted under the

rusty bracket of a gas lamp projecting from the wall. A few chickens

and a pig moved aside to let him pass.

The Impasse d'Alcyon emerged upon the market square of Ausone to the

left of the Cabaret de Biribi; and, as Warner came out into the sunny,

deserted square, the first thing he caught sight of was a written notice

nailed up over the doorway of the Cabaret de Biribi:

AVIS IMPORTANT

The town of Ausone is proclaimed to be in a state of siege. Place and

town will remain under government of the military authorities, aided by

the municipality. Both are within jurisdiction of military headquarters

in charge of the secteur which includes place, town, and environs of

Ausone.

BY ORDER OF THE MAYOR.

The Cabaret de Biribi will remain closed until further notice. For the

convenience of the public, the Cafe Biribi, adjoining, will remain open

between the hours of seven A.M. and nine P.M. until further notice.

The cafe, separated from the cabaret by a clipped privet hedge, formed

the southeastern angle of the square.

Under its orange and white awning the tables on the terrace were crowded

with people lingering over after-luncheon coffee and cognac--quiet,

serious, solid citizens, accustomed to their dejeuner at that time and

place, whose habits of long standing had not so far been altered in the

sudden and general upheaval in the accustomed order of things.

Waiters came and went as usual; men consulted the files of provincial

and Paris papers; one or two were playing dominoes inside the cafe.

Warner, pausing at the entrance to the terrace, summoned a waiter.

"The cabaret is closed, then?" he asked.

"Since last night, Monsieur."

"By the police?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Why?"

The waiter said respectfully:

"It is usual in time of war to close places of amusement. Besides, music

and dancing are in questionable taste at such a time as this."

"Certainly. Where is Monsieur Wildresse?"

"The Patron is absent."

"Where can I find him?"

The waiter shrugged:

"The Patron went away this morning. I do not know where. He has not

yet returned."

"Are you quite certain?"

"Perhaps Monsieur had better ask the _caissiere_. Maybe the Patron has

returned."

So Warner entered the cafe. In the cool, subdued light of the interior,

he saw the cashier behind her counter--a fresh-faced, plump, dark-eyed

country girl, who returned his salute with a smile that showed her white

teeth.

"Monsieur Wildresse?" he inquired. "May I see him for a moment?"

"The Patron is absent, Monsieur."

"When do you expect him to return?"

"We do not know. Sometimes he goes to Paris and remains a week or two."

"Do you suppose he has gone to Paris?"

"We do not know. He never tells us where he is going."

Warner thought hard for a moment, then:

"It seems that the cabaret is closed," he said.

"Locked up, Monsieur."

"I wonder if you could tell me where I might find the _caissiere_ of the

cabaret--Mademoiselle Philippa?"

The girl shook her head:

"I think she went to Paris."

"When?"

"The other day. We understood that she had gone to Paris."

"No," said Warner, "she did not go to Paris. Has she not returned to

Ausone?"

The _caissiere_ rapped with her pencil and a waiter hastened to the

desk.

"Pierre, didn't you say something about Mademoiselle Philippa this

morning?"

"I said that I thought I saw her. It was somebody who resembled her, no

doubt."

Warner wheeled around:

"When?"

"It was before noon, some time----"

"Where?"

"Monsieur, they were putting up and locking the shutters of the cabaret,

and on the top floor somebody inside was lowering the lateen shades and

drawing the blue curtains.

"I thought I saw Mademoiselle Philippa--I thought I saw her face for a

moment behind one of the windows in the Patron's apartment."

"And what do you think about it now?"

"_Ma foi_, Monsieur, if Mademoiselle Philippa has gone to Paris, I could

not have seen her at the window."

"But you saw somebody there?"

"I thought I did."

"Could we go to the cabaret and inquire?"

"It is locked up. There is nobody now within."

"How do you know?"

"They locked and padlocked it from the outside. They even removed the

geraniums and the three cats. The place is empty, Monsieur. I know,

because I helped remove the cats and the potted plants. Everybody and

everything was transferred last night to the cafe. And at noon today

the police put seals on the doors."

Warner forced a smile:

"That, of course, settles it. I'm sorry. I wanted to see the Patron

and Mademoiselle Philippa. Another time will do."

He thanked the waiter, lifted his hat to the _caissiere_, turned, and

walked over to a table by the opposite wall, where he ordered coffee and

cognac and a newspaper, as though he had just lunched.

When his coffee was brought, he opened the paper and leaned back against

the padded leather seat, pretending to read, but studying the room and

everybody in it.

It was a cafe typical of almost any half dead provincial town in

France--large, rather dimly lighted, shabbily furnished with

marble-topped tables ranged around the walls and two ancient billiard

tables occupying the center of the room.

In the corner near the door was the cashier's cage and desk; on the same

side of the room, in the further corner, a swinging leather door, much

battered, gave exit and entrance to the waiters as they went to or

arrived from kitchen and cellar.

And one thing occurred to him immediately: the same kitchen, and perhaps

the same cellar, had supplied both cabaret and cafe. Therefore, there

must still be some passage of communication between the cabaret--which

had been locked and sealed by the authorities--and the cafe which the

police had decreed must remain open for the convenience of the public.

Deeply perturbed by what the waiter had said concerning the glimpse he

had caught of somebody resembling Philippa, and made doubly anxious by

Halkett's sinister remark in regard to the girl's knowledge of secrets

which might send Wildresse before a platoon of execution, he studied the

gloomy room from behind his newspaper, trying to come to some

conclusion.

He did not believe that Wildresse and his companions had dared drive

into Ausone by daylight with Philippa in the tonneau, either unconscious

or resisting them.

If they had brought her to Ausone at all, they must have carried her by

boat, landed at the foot of the cabaret garden, and smuggled the child

into the house through the rear door giving on the river garden.

If they had brought her to Ausone at all, then, she must be at that

moment somewhere within the walls of the double building forming the

Cafe and Cabaret de Biribi. Otherwise, the grey touring car had never

entered Ausone.

To make certain on that point he presently paid his reckoning, bowed to

the cashier, and went leisurely out into the deserted square.

First of all he sauntered back to the town entrance, where the

red-legged soldiers had taken over his cart and horse. Having been

obliged to give particulars concerning himself, the soldiers were

perfectly friendly. Inquiry they readily answered; such a touring car as

he described had been halted and requisitioned by the guard about two

hours before his own horse was stopped and appropriated. There were

only two people in the car, both men.

"Friends of yours, Monsieur?" inquired the polite lieutenant in charge.

"Business acquaintances----"

Warner hesitated, then asked for the names of the two men and their

addresses. The officer on duty very obligingly looked up the

information in his leather-covered book. It appeared that the men were

Adolf Meier and Josef Hoffman, _commis voyageurs_, of Paris, and that

they had gone for lodging to the Boule d'Argent in Ausone.

Warner thanked the boyish officer; the officer was happy to have been of

service to an American and an artist.

But when Warner turned back into the town, he went directly to the

railroad station instead of to the hotel. There he presently discovered

and consulted the _chef de gare_ and the ticket agent; and he learned

definitely that Monsieur Wildresse, who was perfectly well known to both

of them by sight, had not taken any train there.

Travelers who board trains at provincial railway stations cannot escape

official observation. Therefore, what the station master and ticket

agent told him was sufficient for him.

He went slowly back along the river quay, crossed diagonally in front of

the deserted cabaret, entered the Impasse d'Alcyon, and traversed it to

the river bank, where Halkett sat under the big willow tree, smoking his

pipe and letting the rowboat float by the chain which he held in his

hands.

"Halkett," he said, "they're in Ausone or near it. I'm convinced of

that. Their car came in with only two men in it. The military

confiscated it. The men's names are Adolf Meier and Josef Hoffman, and

they inscribed themselves as commercial travelers from Paris. Do you

happen to know them?"

"Perfectly."

"What are they; spies?"

"They are--clumsy ones."

"By any chance are they any of the gentlemen who have been following

you?"

"Exactly. Both have had several shots at me."

"That is interesting. The address they left with the military

authorities is the Boule d'Argent.

"What I have found out is this: the Cabaret de Biribi has been closed

and sealed up by the police; the cafe remains open. A waiter in the

cafe thought he saw Philippa at the window of her apartment over the

cabaret just before noon today.

"But Wildresse, they all say, went away this morning and has not

returned. And they have no idea when to expect him.

"Now, my theory is this: Wildresse and his ruffians, realizing that

their own necks are in danger, went to Sais to see Philippa, either to

bully her into silence or persuade her to return to duty. When they saw

her by the roadside they changed their plans and took a chance. I don't

believe they saw us. We were on our knees in the grass under the shadow

of the hedge. After they caught her they never looked around. I don't

believe any of them noticed us at all. Before the car reached Ausone

they must have stopped in some deserted place, found a boat somewhere,

sent the car on ahead to Ausone with only two men in it, and then

Wildresse and the other two men must have dragged or carried Philippa

across the fields to the river and forced her into the boat. That was

the only way they could have ventured to enter Ausone. They must have

gone by boat to the garden behind the cabaret, where nobody could see

what was going on, and there they probably let themselves into the house

by the rear entrance.

"That's my theory, Halkett. I believe Philippa is there. I believe

Wildresse is there. And I feel very sure that those two choice

scoundrels of his at the Boule d'Argent will join him wherever he is.

So I think we had better tie up our boat and go to the Boule d'Argent

and find these fellows, Meier and Hoffman, and never let them out of our

sight."

"I think so, too," said Halkett quietly.

He knelt down on the grass, passed the boat chain around the base of the

willow tree, linked and padlocked it, sprang to his feet, and walked

quickly after Warner, who had already started to enter the Impasse

d'Alcyon.

"You're a little flustered, old chap," he said, as he rejoined Warner in

the narrow alley. "Don't walk so fast; we ought not to attract

attention."

"I'm horribly nervous," admitted the other, slackening his pace.

"We'll have to keep pretty cool about this affair. It won't do to scare

those scoundrels."

"Why?"

"Because if they really have her locked up in that cabaret. I'm afraid

to guess what they might do to her if they thought their own skins were

in danger."

"I know it," said Warner hoarsely. "I'm worried sick, I tell you!

Wildresse has the worst face I ever looked at. There is only one word

to characterize that countenance of his--bestial!"

"He's a bad lot and he looks it. The military authorities would make

short work of him if Philippa should ever hint at what she has found out

about his rather complicated business affairs. That's what I am afraid

of--that he may take some terrible precaution in order to anticipate any

danger from her----"

"What?"

"He is capable of doing anything to prevent her from speaking. Keeping

her locked up is the precaution that I dread least. What I'm afraid of

is that he may kill her."

Warner turned a bloodless visage to his comrade:

"That's what I'm afraid of, too," he said steadily enough. "I think we

had better notify the police at once----"

"It won't do, old chap!"

"Why? On your account?"

"No, no! My papers are safe enough now. But I tell you, Warner, French

temper is on a hair trigger, in spite of all this gravity and silence.

The very word 'spy' would be the match to the magazine."

"But what of it?"

"Suppose Wildresse denies his treachery and makes a counter-accusation

against Philippa?"

"What? How can he?"

"Suppose he declares that she betrayed him? Suppose already he has

arranged documents to prove it? Suppose he had long ago taken such a

precaution against any chance of her denouncing him? He is an old rat,

grown grey in the business. He must have been perfectly aware that

Philippa is honest--that it even went against her to do the dirty work

that her own Government required of her. He must have known that if she

ever discovered his double treachery, she would at least desert him,

perhaps denounce him. No, no, Warner; that crafty old sewer rat left

nothing to chance.

"If that girl now has an opportunity and the desire to denounce him, you

can be absolutely certain that long ago he has foreseen and prepared

himself for just such an event!"

"Do you believe that?"

Halkett smiled:

"I am certain of it."

"Why?"

"What does a young girl know about treachery? How many papers has

Philippa ignorantly and innocently signed which might exculpate

Wildresse and send _her_ before a peloton of execution in the first

_caserne_ available? _That's_ the way such rats as he protect

themselves!

"No, Warner. It's a filthy business at best, and I admit, sadly enough,

that I know more about it than you ever could know.

"Listen, old chap! It's no good stirring up the police until Philippa

is outside French territory. Then, and then only, may we dare to let

loose the police on this nest of rats in Ausone!"

"Very well," said Warner quietly. "I'll act as you think best, only

I'll----" He stopped to regain control of himself. And when he had

himself in hand again: "Only--it will be a--a bad mistake if

Wildresse--if--if any harm comes to that child."

"Oh, in that event," said Halkett quietly, "we need not scruple to kill

him where we find him."

Warner said unsteadily:

"I shall not hesitate a second----" But Halkett suddenly checked him

with a touch on his elbow, and drew him back behind the wall of the

Impasse d'Alcyon, from which alley they were on the point of emerging

into the town.

Two men were crossing the almost empty market square toward the Cafe

Biribi, moving without haste over the sunny pavement.

"Hoffman and Meier," whispered Halkett. "There go our promising young

rodents straight toward the old rat's nest! It won't do for them to

catch sight of me.... Wait a moment! There they go--into the Cafe

Biribi! Follow them--they don't know you. Keep your eye on them.

"I'll stroll over to the quay and dangle my legs on the river wall. If

you need me, come out on the cafe terrace and beckon."

"Would it do to hand over that pair to the police? They are German

spies, are they not?"

"They are. But at present they are likely to be useful. If Wildresse

is in the cafe or the cabaret, they are sure to reveal the fact to us.

Better go in and keep your eye on them. If you want me, I shall be

smoking my pipe on the river wall across the street."

He nodded and strolled over toward the little tree-shaded quay, filling

his pipe as he sauntered along. Warner continued on to the cafe,

entered, seated himself against the shabby wall, picked up an

illustrated journal, ordered bitters, and composed himself to enjoy the

preprandial hour sacred to all Frenchmen.

Without looking he was aware that the two men, Meier and Hoffman, seated

at a table near the cashier's desk, had noted his arrival and were

steadily inspecting him.

But he did not look in their direction; he turned the pages of the

illustrated paper, leisurely, until the waiter brought his Amer Picon

and a chilled carafe. Then he measured out his water with the unstudied

deliberation of an habitue, stirred the brown liquid, sipped it, and,

turning to another page of his paper, let his eyes rest absently on the

two men opposite.

By that time neither of them was even looking at him. They were

drinking beer; their heads were close together and they had turned so

that they were facing each other on the padded leather wall settee.

It was impossible to hear what they were saying; they spoke rapidly and

in tones so low that only the vibration of their voices was audible in

the still room.

Guarded but vigorous gesticulations marked the progress of their

conference; now and then both became mute while the waiter replenished

their glasses with beer and added another little saucer to the growing

pile on the marble table.

For an hour Warner dawdled over the cafe papers and his glass of

bitters. The men opposite still faced each other on the leather settee,

still conversed with repressed animation, still guzzled beer. Once or

twice they had looked up and across the room at him and had taken a

swift, comprehensive survey of the few other people in the cafe, but the

movement had been wholly instinctive and mechanical. Evidently they

felt entirely secure.

The plump, dark-eyed _caissiere_ had caught Warner's eye once or twice.

Evidently she remembered him, and her quick smile became almost an

invitation to conversation.

It was what he wanted and he hesitated only because he was not sure how

the men opposite might regard his approach toward their vicinity.

But he did it very well; and both men, looking up sharply, seemed

presently to realize that it was merely a flirtation, and that the young

man lounging before the cashier's counter, smiling, and being smiled

upon, could safely be ignored.

"To be the prettiest girl in Ausone," Warner was saying, "must be a very

great comfort to that girl. Don't you think so, Mademoiselle?"

"To be the most virtuous, Monsieur, would be far more comforting."

"Have you then _both_ prizes, Mademoiselle? I was sure of it!"

"Prizes, Monsieur?"

"The golden apple and the _prix de la sagesse_?"

She laughed and blushed, detaching from her corsage a rosebud.

"Accept, Monsieur, the prize for eloquence and for impudence!" And she

extended the rosebud to Warner.

He took it, lifted it to his lips, looking smilingly at her, and

listening with all the concentration he could summon to the murmuring

conversation at the neighboring table.

Only a word or two he could catch--perhaps merely a guess at--"Patron,"

and "nine o'clock," and "cellar"--at least he imagined he could

distinguish these words. And all the time he was up to his ears in a

breezy flirtation with a girl very willing, very adept, and perfectly

capable of appreciating her own desirability as well as the good points

of any casual suitor whom Heaven might strand upon her little, isolated

island for an hour or two.

Being French, she was clever and amusing and sufficiently grateful to

the gods for this bit of masculine flotsam which had drifted her way.

"There are boats," she said, "and the evening will be beautiful."

Having made this clear to him, she smiled and let matters shape their

course.

"What pleasure is a boat and a beautiful night to me," he said, "if

nobody shares both with me?"

"Alas, Monsieur, have you no pretty little friend who could explain to

you the planets on a summer night?"

"Alas, Mademoiselle!"

"What a pity.... Because I have studied astronomy a little. And I

recommend it to you as a diversion. They are so high, so unattainable,

the stars! It is well for a young man to learn what is attainable, and

then to address himself to its pursuit. What do you think, Monsieur?"

"That I should very much like to study astronomy if in all the world

there could be discovered anybody amiable enough to teach me."

"How pathetic! If I only had time----"

"Have you no time at all?"

"It wouldn't do, _mon ami_."

"Why?"

"Because I should be seen going to a rendezvous with you."

"Isn't there any way into the cabaret garden except through the

cabaret?" he asked.

She shook her head, laughing at him out of her brown eyes.

He waited a moment to control his voice, but there was a tremor in it

when he said:

"Is there no way through the cellar?"

She noticed the tremor and liked it. In the lightest and airiest of

flirtations the ardent and unsteady note in a man's voice appeals to any

woman to continue and finish his subjugation.

"As for the cellar," she said, "it is true that one can get into the

cabaret garden that way. But, Monsieur, do you imagine that a dark,

damp, ghostly and pitch-black cellar appeals to any woman?"

"Is the cellar so frightful a place, Mademoiselle?"

"Figure it to yourself!--Some twenty stone steps from the pantry

yonder"--She nodded her head toward the battered swinging door of

leather.--"And then more steps, down, down, down!--Into darkness and

dampness where there are only wine casks and kegs and bottles and

mushrooms and rats and ghosts----"

"What of it--if, as you say, the stars are shining on the river----"

"Merci! A girl must certainly be in love to venture through that

cellar! And a man, too!"

"Try me. I'll go!"

The girl laughed:

"You! Are you, then, in love already?"

"I should like to prove it. Where is that terrible cellar?"

"Behind the door, there." She waved her hand airily. "Try it. Show me

how much you are in love! Perhaps then I'll believe you."

"Will the waiters interfere if I go into the cellar?"

"See how you try to avoid the test!"

"Try me!"

"Very well. The washroom is there. If you choose to wash your hands,

you are at liberty to do so. And then if you can't slip down into the

cellar while the waiters are looking the other way, all I can say is

that you are not in love!"

He looked at her smilingly, scarcely trusting himself to speak for a

moment, for the face of Philippa rose unbidden before his eyes and a

shaft of fear pierced him.

"You are wrong," he said steadily enough. "I am in love.... Very

honestly, very innocently.... It just occurred to me. I didn't know

how deeply I felt.... I really am in love--as one loves what is

fearless, faithful, and devoted."

"A dog is all that, Monsieur."

"Occasionally a human being is, also. Sometimes even a woman."

Her smile became a little troubled.

"Monsieur, are you, then, in love with some woman who possesses these

commendable virtues?"

"No. I am in love with her virtues, Mademoiselle."

"Oh! Then she might even be your sister!"

"Exactly. That is the quality of my affection for her."

The pretty _caissiere_ laughed:

"You were beginning to make me sad," she said. "I--I am really willing

to teach you astronomy, if you truly desire a knowledge of the stars."

"I do, ardently."

"But I am sincerely afraid of the cellar," she murmured. "It is ten

o'clock before I am released from duty, and the knowledge that it is ten

o'clock at night makes that cellar doubly dark and terrible. I--I don't

want to give you a rendezvous down there; and I certainly don't propose

to traverse the cellar alone. Monsieur, what on earth am I to do?"

"To study the stars on the river, and to reach a rendezvous without

being noticed, makes it necessary for you to slip out through the

cellar, does it not?"

"Alas!"

"Haven't you the courage?"

"I don't--know."

"Yes, you have."

"Have I?" She laughed.

"Certainly. I'll go to the washroom now, and get into the cellar

somehow, and make myself acquainted with it.... I suppose I ought to

have a candle----"

She said:

"When I walk home alone at night I have a little electric torch with me.

Shall I lend it to you?"

She opened the desk drawer, drew it out concealed under her

handkerchief, and he managed to transfer it to his pocket. It clinked

against the loaded automatic pistol; nobody noticed the sound.

But for a moment he thought the two men, Meier and Hoffman, had noticed

it, because they both got up and came over directly toward him.

However, they merely wished to pay their reckoning with a hundred-franc

note, and Warner moved aside while they crowded before the pretty

cashier's desk, offering hasty pleasantries and ponderous gallantries,

while she dimpled at them and made change.

Then, after tipping the waiter, they went out into the late afternoon

sunshine.

Warner, looking after them, could see that they were crossing the square

toward the Boule d'Argent; and he knew that Halkett must have seen them

and that he would manage to keep them in view.

Now was his time to investigate the cellar, and he said so to the

brown-eyed girl behind the cage, who had been inspecting him rather

pensively.

"I ought not to do this," said the pretty _caissiere_.

"Of course not. Otherwise we should not find each other agreeable."

She smiled, looking at him a little more seriously and more attentively.

"It is odd, is it not," she said under her breath, "how two people from

the opposite ends of the earth chance to meet and--and find each

other--agreeable?"

"It is delightful," he admitted smilingly.

"I don't even know your name," she remarked, playing with her pencil.

"James."

"Tchames?"--with a pretty attempt to imitate his English.

"Jim is easier."

"Djeem?"

"Perfect!"

"Djeem," she repeated, looking musingly at the tall, well-built

American. "C'est drole, ce nom la! Djeem? It is pleasant, too.... My

name is Jeanne." She shrugged her youthful shoulders. "Nothing

extraordinary, you see.... Still, I shall try to please you, Monsieur

Djeem."

"I dare not hope to please you----"

She laughed:

"You _do_ please me. Do you suppose, otherwise, I should dare enter

that frightful cellar?"

Under cover of her desk, she deftly detached a key from the bunch at her

belt, covered it with her hand, palm down, and let it rest on the

counter before him.

"Do you promise to keep away from the wine bins?" she asked lightly.

"I promise solemnly," he said, and took the key.

"Very well. Then you may go and look at this dreadful cellar at once.

And when you behold it, ask yourself how great a goose a girl must be

who ventures into it at ten o'clock at night merely because a young man

desires to take a lesson in astronomy on the river Recollette."

*CHAPTER XVII*

He had little difficulty in gaining the cellar from the washroom. Both

doors opened out of the pantry passage; he had only to watch the moving

figures silhouetted through the pantry doorway, and when they were out

of sight for the moment, he stepped out, unlocked the cellar door,

closed it gently behind him, flashed his electric torch, and started

down the broad stone steps.

It was one of the big, old-time cellars not unusual in provincial towns,

but built, probably, a century before the cafe and cabaret had been

erected on its solid stone foundations.

Two rows of squatty stone pillars supported the low arches of the roof;

casks, kegs, bins, empty bottles, broken bottles, and row after row of

unsealed wine bottles lined the alleyways leading in every direction

through the darkness.

On either side of the main central corridor stood wine casks of every

shape and size, some very ancient, to judge from the carving and quality

of the wood, some more or less modern, some of today. Almost all were

hoisted on skids with bung and bung starter in place and old-time jugs

and measures of pewter or glass at hand; a few lay empty amid the cellar

debris, where the salts born of darkness and dampness dimly glimmered on

wall and pavement, and a rustling in unseen straw betrayed the lurking

place of rats.

Warner, playing his flashlight, walked swiftly forward, traversing the

three principal alleys in succession. The third round included the

little dark runways twisting in and out among the bins, turning sudden

angles into obscurity, or curving back in a blind circle to the point of

entrance.

And as he stood resting for a moment, trying to get his bearings and

shifting his electric torch over the labyrinth within which he had

become involved, a slight but distinct sound broke the silence around

him.

It came from the cellar steps: somebody had opened the door above.

Instantly he extinguished his torch; the blackness walled him in,

closing on him so swiftly that he seemed to feel a palpable pressure

upon his body.

Listening, every nerve on edge, he heard footsteps falling cautiously

upon the stone stairway; a white radiance spread and grew brighter at

the far end of the vaulted place; and in a moment more the blinding star

of an electric torch dazzled his eyes, where he stood looking out

between the cracks of the piled-up boxes which made of the alley in

which he had halted a rampart and an impasse.

Two men were advancing, shining the way before them, turning their heads

from side to side with curiosity, but without apparently any suspicion.

They seemed to know the place and to be entirely familiar with every

alley, for, just before they passed the runway where he crouched behind

the boxes, they turned aside, played their light over the dusty banks of

bottles, chose one, coolly knocked off its neck, and leisurely drained

it between them.

Then, exchanging a few comments in voices too low to be understood, they

resumed their course, passed the entrance to the alley where Warner lay

hidden, and continued on a few paces.

He could see them as black shapes against the flare of light; saw them

halt a few paces from where he stood, saw them reach up and take hold of

a huge tun which blocked their progress.

Their torch was shining full upon it; he could follow minutely

everything they were doing.

One of the men stretched his arms out horizontally and grasped the edges

of the immense cask. Then he threw his full weight to the right; the

cask swung easily outward, leaving a passageway wide enough for a man.

And there, full in the blaze of brilliant light, was a door, scarcely

ten feet away from where he was standing.

The man who had turned the cask went to the door, slid aside a panel,

reached in and unbolted it, and had already opened the door when a big

bulk loomed up in front of him; a gross, vibrant voice set the hollow

echoes growling under the arches of stone and mortar; Wildresse barred

their way.

He stood there, the torchlight falling full on his round, partly bald

and smoothly shaven head; his wicked little ratty eyes were two points

of black, his wicked mouth was twisted with profanity.

"Sacre tas de bougres!" he roared. "I told you to come at nine o'clock,

didn't I? What are you doing here, then? You, Asticot, you are

supposed to have more sense than Squelette, there! Why do you interrupt

me before the hour I set?"

The man addressed as Asticot--a heavy, bench-legged young man with two

_favoris_ pasted over his large wide ears--shuffled his shoes most

uncomfortably.

Squelette, tall, frightfully thin, with his long, furrowed neck of an

unclean bird swathed in a red handkerchief, stood sullen and motionless

while the glare of his torch streamed over Wildresse.

"Nom de Dieu!" shouted the latter. "Aim at my belly and keep that light

out of my face, you stupid ass!"

Squelette sulkily shifted his torch; Asticot said in the nasal, whining

voice of the outer boulevards:

"_Voyons, mon vieux_, you have been at it for six hours, and the

Skeleton here and I thought you might require our services----"

"Is that so!" snarled Wildresse. "Also, they may require your services

in La Roquette!"

"They do," remarked Squelette naively.

"You don't have to tell me that!" retorted Wildresse. "You'll sneeze for

them, too, some day!" He turned savagely on Asticot: "I _don't_ want

you now! I'm busy! Do you understand?"

"I understand," replied the Maggot. "All the same, if I may be so

bold--what's the use of chattering if there's a job to finish? If

there's work to do, do it, and talk afterward. That's my idea."

Wildresse glared at him:

"Really! Very commendable. Such notions of industry ought to be

encouraged in the young. But the trouble with you, Asticot, is that you

haven't anything inside that sucked-out orange you think is a head.

"Whatever mental work is to be done, I shall do. Do you comprehend me,

imbecile? And I don't trouble to consult your convenience, either. Is

that clear? Now, take your friend, the Skeleton, and take your torch and

yourself out of this cellar. Get out, or I'll bash your face in!--You

dirty little bandy-legged, blood-lapping cockroach----"

His big, pock-pitted, hairless face became frightful in its concentrated

ferocity; both men made simultaneous and involuntary movements to the

rear.

"You'll come at nine o'clock, do you hear!" he roared. "And you'll bring

a sack with you and enough weight to keep it sunk! You, Maggot; you,

Skeleton, do you understand? Very well, clear out!"

The young ruffians made no response; Asticot turned and made his way

through the narrow passage; the Skeleton shuffled on his heels, shining

his torch ahead.

Halfway down the central corridor they helped themselves to two more

bottles of Bordeaux, pocketing them in silence, and continued on their

course.

Listening, Warner could hear them ascending the stone stairs, could hear

the door click above as they left the cellar. But his eyes remained

fixed on Wildresse, who still stood in the door, darkly outlined against

the dull gaslight burning somewhere in the room behind him.

Once or twice he looked at the great cask which the two _voyous_ had not

troubled to close into its place behind them. And Wildresse did not

bother to go out and swing the cask back into place, but, as soon as he

caught the sound of the closing cellar door, stepped back and shut his

own door.

He must either have forgotten, or carelessly neglected, to close the

open panel in it, for the lighted square remained visible, illuminating

the narrow passage after Warner heard him bolt the door on the inside.

His retreating footsteps, also, were audible for some distance before

the sound of them died away; and Warner knew then that the door belonged

to the cabaret, and that behind its bolted shutters and its police seals

Wildresse had been lurking since his return from Sais.

There was no need to use his torch as he crept out of his ambush and

entered the narrow lane behind the big cask.

With infinite precautions, he thrust his arm through the open panel,

felt around until he found the two bolts, slid them noiselessly back.

The door swung open, inward. He went in softly.

The place appeared to be a lumber room littered with odds and ends.

Beyond was a passage in which a gas jet burned; at the end of it a

stairway leading up.

The floor creaked in spite of him, but the stairs were carpeted. They

led up to a large butler's pantry; and, through the sliding door, he

peered out into the dim interior of the empty cabaret.

Through cracks in the closed shutters rays from the setting sun pierced

the gloom, making objects vaguely distinct--tables and chairs piled one

upon the other around the dancing floor, the gaudy decorations pendent

from the ceiling, the shrouded music stands, the cashier's desk where he

had first set eyes on the girl Philippa----

With the memory his heart almost ceased, then leaped with the resurgence

of his fear for her; he looked around him until he discovered a leather

swinging door, and when he opened it a wide hallway lay before him and a

stairway rose beyond.

Over the thick carpet he hastened, then up the stairs, cautiously,

listening at every step.

Somewhere above, coming apparently from behind a closed door, he heard

the heavy vibration of a voice, and knew whose it was.

Guided by it along the upper passageway, he passed the open doors of

several bedrooms, card rooms, private dining-rooms, all empty and the

furniture covered with sheets, until he came to a closed door.

Behind it, the heavy voice of Wildresse sounded menacingly; he waited

until it rose to a roar, then tried the door under cover of the noise

within. It was locked, and he stood close to it, listening, striving to

think out the best way.

Behind the locked door Wildresse was shouting now, and Warner heard

every word:

"By God!" he roared in English. "You had better not try to lie to me!

Do you want your neck twisted?"

There was no reply.

"I ask you again, what did you do with that paper I gave you by

mistake?" he repeated.

Suddenly Warner's heart stood still, as Philippa's voice came to him,

low but distinct:

"I burned it!"

"You burned it? You lie!"

"I never lie," came the subdued voice. "I burned it."

"You slut! How dared you touch it at all?"

"You handed it to me," she said wearily.

"And you knew it was a mistake, you treacherous cat! My God! Have I

nourished you for this, you little snake, that you turn your poisonous

teeth on me?"

"Perhaps.... But not on my country."

"Your country! You miserable foundling, did you suppose yourself

French?"

"France is the only country I have known. I refuse to betray her."

"France!" he shouted. "France! A hell of a country to snivel about!

You can't tell me anything about France--the dirty kennel full of

mongrels that it is! France? To hell with France!

"What has she done for me? What has she done to me? Chased me out of

Paris; forced my only son into her filthy army; hunted us both without

mercy--finally hunted my son into the Battalions of Biribi--me into this

damned pigpen of Ausone! That's what France has done to me and

mine!--Blackmailed me into playing the _mouchard_ for her--forcing me to

play spy for her by threatening to hunt me into La Nouvelle!

"By God! I break even, though! I sell her every chance I get; and what

I sell to her she has to pay for, too--believe me, she pays for it a

hundred times over!"

There came a silence, then Wildresse's voice again, rumbling,

threatening:

"Who was that _type_ you went to visit in Sais at the Golden Peach?"

No answer.

"Do you hear, you little fool?"

"I hear you," she said in a tired voice.

"You won't tell?"

"No."

"Why? Is he your lover?"

"No."

"Oh, you merely got your wages, eh?"

No answer.

"In other words, you're launched, eh? You aspire to turn _cocotte_,

eh?"

"I am employed by him quite honestly----"

"Very touching. Such a nice young man, isn't he? And how much did you

tell him about me, eh?"

No reply.

"Did you inform him that I was a very bad character?" he sneered. "Did

you tell him what a hard time you had? Did you explain to him that a

pious Christian really could not live any longer with such a man as I

am? _Did_ you? And that is the way you feel, isn't it?--That you are

too good for the business in which I have taken the trouble to educate

you?"

"To be compelled to seek information for my Government has made me very

unhappy," she said. "But to betray that Government--that is not in me

to do. I had rather die.... I think, anyway, that I had rather

not--live--any longer."

"Is that so? Is that all the spirit you have? What are you, anyway--a

worm? Have you no anger in you against the country which has kicked you

and me out of Paris into this filthy kennel called Ausone? Have you no

resentment toward the Government that has attempted to beggar us

both--the Government which bullies us, threatens us, blackmails us,

forbids us entry into the capital, keeps us tied up here like dogs to

watch and bark at strangers and whine away our lives on starvation

wages, when we could make our fortunes in Paris?"

"I don't know what you did."

"What of it? Suppose I broke a few of their damned laws! Is that a

reason to kick me from place to place and finally tie me up here?"

"I--don't know."

"Oh, 'don't know'!" he mimicked her. "You ungrateful slut, if you had

any gratitude in your treacherous little body, you'd stick to me now!

You'd rejoice at my vengeance! You'd laugh to know that I am paying

back in her own coin the country which insulted me! That's what you'd

do, instead of sniveling around about 'treachery' and 'betraying

France.'

"And, by God!--now that war has come, you'll see your beloved France

torn into pieces by the Bosches! That's what you'll see--France ripped

into tatters!

"Yes, and that sight will repay me for all that has been done to

me--that revenge I shall have--soon!--just as soon as they sweep up that

stable litter of Belgians over there!

"_Then_ we'll see! Then perhaps I'll get my recognition from the

Bosches!

"What do I care for France or for them, either? I'm of no nation; I'm

nothing; I'm for _myself_! The Bosches were the kinder to me, and they

get what I don't need, _voila tout_!"

There came a long pause, and then Wildresse's heavy tones once more:

"I'll give you your chance. Yes, in spite of your treachery and your

ingratitude, I'll give you your chance!

"You have a brain--such as it is. It's a woman's brain, of course, but

it can figure out on which side the bread is buttered.

"Listen: I ought to twist your neck. You've tried to put mine into the

_lunette_. You could have sent me up against a dead wall if you had

given that paper you burned to the _flics_. No, you didn't. You

enjoyed a crisis of nerves and you burned it. I _know_ you burned it,

because I admit that you tell the truth.

"Bon! Now, therefore, I do not instantly twist your neck. No! On the

contrary, I reason with you. I do not turn you over to the _sergots_.

I _could_! Why? Voyons, let us be reasonable! I was not hatched

yesterday. No! Do you suppose I have trusted you all these years

without having taken any little precautions? _Tiens_, you are beginning

to look at me, eh?

"Well, then, listen: if in future you have any curiosity concerning

_lunettes_ and dead walls, let me inform you that you are qualified to

embellish either.

"_Tiens_! You seem startled. It never occurred to you to ask why I

have had certain papers written out by you, or why I have had you affix

your pretty signature to so many little documents which you could not

read because the ink was invisible.

"No. You have never thought about such matters, have you? But, all the

same, I have all I require to make you sneeze into the basket, or to

play blindman's buff between a dead wall and a squad of execution.

"And _now_!--Now that you know enough to hold your tongue, will you hold

it in future and be honest and loyal to the hand that picked you out of

the gutter and that has fed you ever since?"

There was a silence.

"_Will_ you?" he repeated.

"_No!_"

A bull-like roar burst from Wildresse:

"I'll twist your neck for you, and I'll do it now!" he bellowed. "I'll

snap that white neck of yours----"

*CHAPTER XVIII*

The next instant Warner struck the door such a blow with his doubled

fist that the jarring sound silenced the roar of rage that had burst

from Wildresse at Philippa's answer, and checked the heavy scuffle of

his great feet, too.

Already Warner had drawn back, pistol lifted, gathered together to throw

his full weight against the door and hold it the moment it was opened

from inside.

The sudden stillness which followed his blow lasted but a few seconds;

heavy steps approached the door, halted; approached irresolutely,

stopped short. Then ensued another period of quiet; and Warner,

listening, could hear the breathing of Wildresse on the other side of

the door.

Minute after minute passed; Wildresse, still as a tiger, never stirred,

and even his suppressed breathing became inaudible after a while.

Warner, pistol in hand, ready to throw himself against the door the

instant it moved on the crack, bent over and placed his ear close

against the paneling. After a while he detected the sound of footsteps

cautiously retreating, and realized that Wildresse did not intend to

open the door.

He knocked again loudly: the steps continued to recede; somewhere

another door was unbolted and opened; and the stealthy, retreating

footsteps continued on beyond earshot.

Again he knocked heavily with the butt of his pistol; waited, listened,

then drew back and fairly hurled himself against the door. It scarcely

even creaked; he might as well have attempted to push over the retaining

wall of the corridor itself.

"Philippa!" he called. "Philippa!"

A low cry answered him; he heard her stir suddenly.

But as he grasped the door knob and shook it in his excitement and

impatience, over his shoulder he caught a glimpse of a gross, hairless

face slyly peering around the further corner of the corridor. It

disappeared immediately.

"Open the door, Philippa!" he cried. "Open quick!"

"Warner, _mon ami_, I can't! He took the key----" she called through to

him. "Oh, Warner! What am I to do?"

"All right! Wait there!" He turned and ran for the further end of the

corridor, sprang around the corner without hesitating, sped forward, now

fiercely intent on the destruction of Wildresse. But the Patron had

fled. He ran forward, turned another corner in the dim light of locked

shutters, but found no trace of the bulky quarry he hunted, heard

nothing, halted, breathing fast and hard, trying to establish his

bearings.

A stair well plunged downward into shadowy depths just ahead; he stole

forward and looked over; carpeted steps vanished into the darkness

below.

Doors, all locked, faced him everywhere; he ran along them, trying each

as he passed; came to an angle of solid wall, stepped around it, pistol

extended; and it was a miracle he was not startled into pulling trigger

when a door was torn open in his very face, and a figure, dark against

the fiery sunset framed by a window, sprang forward.

"Warner, _mon ami_! _Me voici_!" she cried joyously, flinging both arms

around his neck; but he stood white and trembling with the nearness of

her destruction at his hands, holding the shaking pistol wide from her

body and unable to utter a word.

And as he stood there, one arm around her thin body, somewhere below and

behind him a door burst open and there came a muffled rush of feet up

the stairway from the darkness below.

He pushed her violently away from him, but before he could turn and

spring to the stairhead, three men leaped into the passage, their

weapons spitting red flashes through the dusky corridor; and he jumped

backward dragging Philippa with him into the room behind them, slammed

the door, and bolted, chained, and locked it.

Outside, Asticot, Squelette, and Hoffman stood close to the door and

poured bullets through it at close range. The stream of lead tore the

papered plaster wall, opposite to tatters; but the door was as massive

as the one he had tried to force with his shoulder; two great bars of

metal bolted it, a heavy chain further secured it, and the key remained

in the lock.

But steel-jacketed bullets still pierced the wood, stripping splinters

from the inside and mangling the opposite wall until the gay wall paper

hung in strips, and the whole room swam in a haze of drifting white

dust.

Edging along, his body flattened against the north wall of the empty

room, and drawing Philippa after him, he cautiously approached the door

which he had tried to force; and heard Wildresse whispering to somebody

outside. No wonder he had not been able to force it; the bolts and

chains that held it were exactly like those which secured the other

door.

He placed his lips close to Philippa's ear:

"Where are we?" he breathed; and bent his head to the child's bruised

mouth, which was still swollen and cut from the blow dealt her by

Wildresse that morning in the car.

"We are in the Patron's private office, where he used to lock himself

in," she whispered. "They've taken out the desk and chairs. His

bedroom is next; mine is the next beyond that."

He looked anxiously toward the window and saw tree tops and glimpses of

rolling country sparkling in the lilac-tinted haze of approaching

twilight.

"Where does that window face?" he whispered, softly.

"On the garden and river."

"How far a drop is it?"

"Too far, _mon ami_. The stone terrace is below."

"Is it thirty feet?"

"I don't know. The roof and chimneys are above us. We are in the top

story of the house."

"There are only two stories above the cellar, as I remember."

"Two, yes."

Still holding himself and her flat against the wall, he turned his head

cautiously from side to side, searching the empty room. There was

absolutely nothing there except bare floor and walls, and, in the

fireplace, a huge iron grate weighted with cannel coal.

Outside, from the two corridors the firing had ceased; but he could

distinguish the low vibration of heavy voices, carefully subdued, catch

the sound of stealthy movements on the carpeted floor close to both

doors. Lifting his pistol he fired through one door, wheeled, and fired

through the other. When the deafening racket in the room had ceased, he

bent toward her and whispered:

"Philippa, will you obey me?"

"Yes, mon ami."

"Flatten yourself closer against the wall and don't stir."

The girl spread out both arms, palms against the wall, and shrank closer

against it with her slim body.

Warner dropped cautiously to the floor, crept across it, dragging

himself by his hands, grasped the sill of the window, drew his head up

with infinite precaution, and looked out and finally down.

Below lay the flagstones and potted flowers of the garden terrace, not

more than twenty-five feet, he thought. Beyond these, the grass sloped

down to the Recollette, where rowboats still floated under the trees.

Reconnoitering, he could not discover a soul in sight, and, satisfied,

he crept back to where Philippa stood.

As he looked up at her, a faint smile touched the girl's bruised lips,

and her steady grey eyes seemed to say: "_Me voici, mon ami, toujours a

vos ordres!_"

"We must try to leave by the window," he whispered. "Both doors are

guarded. And this man means murder--for you, anyway----"

"Yes.... It does not matter much now.... Since I have seen you again."

"You dear child--you dear, brave little thing!"

"Oh, _mon ami_--if you truly are content with me----"

"Little comrade, you have been very wonderful and very true! Halkett

has recovered his papers.... Can you imagine how I felt when that

murderous brute struck you!"

"It was nothing--I don't care, now----" She looked at his face,

extended one finger along the wall, and touched his arm, trying to smile

with her disfigured lips.

He looked at her very intently for a moment, unsmiling. Then:

"Little comrade! Listen attentively."

"Yes, Warner."

"It's too far for us to drop. It is twenty feet, anyway, and probably

more. You would break your legs on the stones.... How many of your

clothes can you spare to make a rope?"

"My--_clothing_?"

"Yes. You see there is not a thing in this room, not even a shred of

carpet. I can spare my coat, waistcoat, shirt, tie, two handkerchiefs,

collar, belt--and both shoe laces. I have a heavy, sharp pocketknife

with a four-inch blade, which will cut cloth into strips. Help me all

you can, Philippa. We shall need every inch of cloth and linen we can

spare.... And I think we had better hurry about it, because I don't

know what they are planning to do outside those two doors."

She hesitated an instant, then:

"If you wish it.... Will you please turn your head?"

"Of course, you dear child! What can you spare?"

"I can spare my chemisette and underskirt and petticoat, and my velvet

hairband and my shoe laces.... And a handkerchief and my stockings....

It leaves me my red velvet bodice, which I can lace tightly, my red

velvet skirt, and my shoes.... Will it be enough to give you?"

"I hope so; we must try." He turned, stripped to his undershirt and

trousers, opened the long-bladed knife, and began to cut out strips from

the materials.

Presently she was ready to contribute to the projected rope, and

together they ventured to seat themselves noiselessly at the base of the

wall and begin serious work on the business before them.

The sound of linen or of cotton being ripped would certainly have set on

the alert the men outside and directed a murderously inclined gentleman

or two to the garden.

So they parted the stuffs with every precaution to avoid any noise,

using the knife constantly, and easing the various fabrics apart little

by little.

Warner was confident that Wildresse, knowing the utter nakedness of the

room in which they were locked, and knowing that death or broken bones

must result from a drop into the terrace flowerpots, was not concerning

himself to guard that quarter. Working steadily, easing, parting,

picking out or cutting threads, ripping and tearing with greatest

caution, the growing dusk in the room began to impede their operations.

But he dared not use his electric torch, lest they be seen from outside.

Already the girl's slender fingers were flying as she picked up strip

after strip of fabric and twisted them into the quadruple braid, bending

closer over her task as the light became dimmer and dimmer.

Her bare feet in her laceless shoes were extended and crossed in front

of her; the slender neck and shoulders and arms were exquisite in the

delicate loveliness of immaturity; she worked swiftly, intensely

absorbed, unconscious, unembarrassed in her preoccupation.

Now and then she lifted the braided cord and, stretching it, tested it

with all her youthful strength. Once she handed it to him and he threw

his full strength into the test, nodded, passed it back to her, and went

on with his cutting and ripping.

Before the cord was finished, a tremendous crash shook the door on the

left; and Warner, seated flat on the floor, fired two shots through the

panels.

Then they both went on with their cutting, ripping, knotting, and

braiding. The fumes from the cartridges set them coughing, but the

smoke filtered out of the open window very soon.

It was dark when the cord was ready--some eighteen feet of it, as far as

Warner could judge by measuring it across his outstretched arms.

Everything was in it except his leather belt, and this he buckled around

Philippa's body.

There seemed to be no way he could test the cord except, inch by inch,

using main strength; and, looking at the slender girl beside him, he

concluded that it was going to hold her anyway.

The only light left in the room came from the stars; by this he crept

across to the fireplace, lifted the heavy, iron grate with difficulty,

set it at the foot of the window, fastened one end of the cord to it,

turned and beckoned to Philippa.

She came creeping through the dusk on hands and knees; he pushed the

pistol into one hip pocket, the electric torch into the other, fastened

the rope to his leather belt which she wore, motioned her to mount the

sill.

"But--_you_?" she whispered.

"Listen! I shall follow. If _I_ fall, try to find Halkett in the

square and tell him."

"Warner--I am afraid!"

"I won't let you fall----"

"For _you_, I mean!"

"Don't be afraid. I could almost drop it without any cord to help me.

Now! Are you ready?"

"If you wish it."

"Then sit this way--there! Now, turn and take hold of the sill with

both hands--_that_ way! ... Now, you may let go----"

Her full weight on the cord frightened him; he braced his knees and paid

out the rope which crushed and threatened to cut his hands in two.

Down, down into the dusk below he lowered her; his arms and back and

ribs seemed turned to steel, so terrible was the fear that he might let

her drop.

There remained yet a coil or two of rope when the cord in his staggering

hands suddenly slackened. A shaft of fright pierced him; he bent

shakily over the sill and looked down. She had not fallen; she stood on

the terrace, unknotting the rope from her leather belt.

A moment later he drew it up, the belt dangling at the end. With

trembling and benumbed hands he tested the knot tied to the grate; then,

twisting the cord around both hands, he let himself over the sill, clung

there, and lowered the window, hesitated, let his full weight hang,

heard the iron grate drag and catch, then, blindly, twisting the cord

around his left leg, he let himself down foot by foot, believing every

moment that the cord would part or that the iron grate would be dragged

up and over the sill, carry away the sash, and crush him.

And the next instant his feet touched the stone flagging and he turned

to find Philippa at his side.

"Be silent," she breathed close to his ear. "A boat has just landed."

"Where?"

"At the foot of the garden. Two men are getting out!"

He knew that the rope would be discovered; he seized it and tried to

break it loose. It held as though it had been woven of wire.

"There is a way into the cellar," whispered Philippa. "Can you lift this

grating? It is only a drop of a foot or two!"

He bent down beside her in the shadows, felt the bars of the narrow

grating overgrown with herbage, pulled upward and lifted it easily from

its grassy bed. Philippa placed her hand flat on the dewy turf, and

vaulted down into darkness. He balanced himself on the edge of the

hole, turned and pulled the grating toward him, and dropped. The

grating fell with a soft thud on the damp and grassy rim of the manhole.

Philippa caught his hand.

"I know my way! Come!" she breathed, and he followed into the pitchy

darkness.

How far they had progressed he had no idea, when she halted and drew him

close to her.

"I've lost my way; I thought I could find the main corridor. Have you a

match?"

"I have a flashlight."

He pulled it from his pocket and drew his pistol also. Then he snapped

on the light.

For a moment the girl stood dazzled and perplexed, evidently unfamiliar

with what she was gazing at, bewildered.

But Warner knew. There, in front of him, stood the great tun, swung

open like a gate, and between it and the next cask ran the secret alley

blocked by the door from which Wildresse had driven Asticot and

Squelette.

"I know the way now!" he said. "But we'll have to pass through the

cafe----"

He sprang back with the words on his lips as the door opened violently

and Wildresse lurched out, followed by Asticot and another man.

But the glare of the torch in their eyes checked them and they recoiled,

stumbling over each other in the narrow doorway.

Step by step Warner backed away, keeping Philippa behind him and

focussing the blinding light on the men huddled in the doorway.

"Who are you?" demanded Wildresse hoarsely. "What are you doing in my

cellar?"

He made a motion toward his breast pocket; Asticot was quicker, and he

fired full at the flashlight which Warner was holding wide of himself

and Philippa.

The bullet struck the light; startling darkness buried them, instantly

all a-flicker again with pistol flashes.

"The grating again! Can you find it, Philippa?" he whispered.

She turned her head as she retreated, caught a glimpse of the faint spot

of starlight behind, took his hand and drew him around.

Evidently Wildresse dared not use any light; his friends were shooting

wildly and at hazard for general results; the racket in the vaulted

place was deafening; but the flashes from their own pistols must have

obscured their vision, for if they could have distinguished the far,

pale spot of light under the manhole, they evidently did not see the dim

figures crouching there.

Warner reached up, grasped the iron bars, lifted them, swung them open.

Then he dragged himself up and over, and, flat on the grass, held down

his arms for Philippa.

Beside him, panting on the grass, she lay flat under the dim luster of

the stars, while they searched the dusk for any sign of the two men who

had landed from the rowboat.

And all at once the girl's eyes fell upon a ladder leaning against the

house, and she silently touched Warner on the arm.

It became plain enough now; the rope was gone; the men had mounted to

the room, found it empty, had unbolted both doors, and started Wildresse

and his crew toward the cellar--the only egress to the street--where lay

their only chance of successful pursuit.

Bending low above the grass, gliding close to the shrubs and bushes,

Warner, with Philippa's hand clasped in his, stole down the slope and

into the shadow of the shoreward trees.

A boat, with both oars in it, lay there, pulled up into the sedge; the

girl stepped in; Warner pushed off and followed her, shipped the oars,

swung the boat, and bent to his work.

"You are taking the wrong way!" whispered Philippa.

"Halkett is waiting on the quay."

Already they had rounded the bank in sight of the ancient arch of the

bridge; the quay wall rose above them in the starlight. At the foot of

the narrow flight of steps he checked the boat; Philippa took the oars,

and he sprang out and ran up the stone incline.

"Halkett!" he called sharply.

A figure seated on the wall turned its head, jumped to the pavement, and

came striding swiftly.

"Have you discovered her whereabouts? Good heavens! Where are your

clothes, Warner?"

"I've found Philippa. She's waiting below in a boat----"

They ran down the steps while they were speaking, and Philippa cried:

"Is it you, Halkett? I am happy again!" And stretched out her slender

bare arm to him, excited, trembling a little from the nervous reaction

which now suddenly filled her eyes and set her disfigured mouth

quivering.

"Awf'lly glad," said Halkett heartily, clasping her offered hand in his

firm cool grip; and if he was astonished at her negligee he did not

betray it, but took the oars with decision and sent the boat shooting

out into mid-current.

"Philippa," he said, pulling downstream with powerful strokes through

the darkness, "I don't know what has happened; Warner got you out of the

mess, whatever it was; but what I do know is that you behaved like a

brick and I shall never forget it! A soldier's thanks, little comrade,

for what you did!"

"I--I am--happy----" she faltered; and her voice failed her. She slid

from the stern down against Warner's knees, and buried her face in her

bare arms against them.

"Do you think you could spare her your coat, old fellow?" asked Warner

in a low voice.

"Of course!" Halkett stripped off his coat and passed it over; then he

gave his waistcoat to Warner.

"Lucky it's a warm night," he said cheerfully, while Warner spread the

coat over Philippa, where she lay exhausted, tremulous, and close to

tears. The girl who had never whimpered when fear, timidity, and

indecision meant instant disaster, now lay huddled against his knees,

shaking in every limb, crushing back the tears that burned her eyes and

her throat, striving to master the nerves that clamored for relief.

Warner bent over her, close, touching her disheveled hair:

"It's all right now," he whispered. "I shall not let you go again until

you want to.... It's all right now, Philippa. I'll stand your friend

always--as long as you need me--as long as you--want me.... Don't worry

about a home; I'll see to it. You are going to have your chance."

One of her crossed hands groped blindly for his, closed over it

convulsively, and her breath grew hot with tears.

"It's a long way to Tipperary," remarked Halkett cheerily. "Tell me

about it when you're ready, old chap."

*CHAPTER XIX*

About seven o'clock the next morning Halkett knocked at Warner's door,

awakening him.

"The cavalry are passing, if you'd care to see them," he said.

Warner got out of bed, found his slippers and a bathrobe, and opened the

door. Halkett, fully dressed in the field uniform of a British officer,

came in.

"Hello!" exclaimed the American in surprise. "What does this mean?"

"It means that we've gone in, old chap."

"England!"

"Yes, we're in it! And I'm off." He made a gesture for silence.

"Hark! Do you hear that?"

Warner listened: from the distance came a confused, metallic sound,

growing more and more distinct, filling the room with a faint ringing,

jarring harmony.

"Come to the window; it's worth seeing," said Halkett.

It was worth seeing. Through the still morning sunshine, from the

southward came an immense sound wave; the rustle and clash of steel, the

clink-clank of iron-shod hoofs.

Leaning from the window, Warner looked down the road. A high column of

white dust stretched away into perspective as far as he could see.

Under it, emerging from it, rode the French heavy cavalry, the morning

sun a blinding sheet of fire on their armor.

On they came at a leisurely walk, helmets and breastplates blazing

silvery fire under a perpendicular forest of lances canopied by the

white dust.

They were terribly conspicuous; a cloudless sky exposed every detail of

their uniforms--the gold epaulets of their officers, the crimson

epaulets and breeches of the troopers, the orange-red whalebone plumes

that flew like the manes of horses from the trumpeters' helmets.

On they came, riding at ease, accompanied by dust and by a vast and

confused volume of assorted noises--the tintinnabulation of their armor,

the subdued clash of sabers, the rattle and clash of equipments, the

solidly melodious trample of thousands of horses.

But Warner looked down at them with anxious eyes and lips compressed.

"Good God!" he said under his breath to Halkett. "Are they going into

battle dressed that way? I thought they had learned something since

1870!"

"War has caught France unprepared in that particular matter," said

Halkett gravely.

"I didn't know it. I understood that Detaille had designed their

campaign dress. It's a dreadful thing, Halkett, to send men into fire

dressed in that way!"

"It is. But look, Warner. Is there anything more magnificent when in

mass formation than a brigade of French cuirassiers?"

As they rode clanging under the windows of the inn, officers and

troopers looked up curiously at the man in his bathrobe, in friendly

surprise at the young man in the British field uniform; but when the

upturned, sunburned faces caught sight of the next window beyond, a

quick, gay smile flashed out, and dark blue sleeves shot up in laughing

greeting and salute.

"It's Philippa," whispered Halkett. "Look!"

Warner turned: Philippa, wearing the scarlet and black peasant dress of

a lost province, sat sideways on her window sill, knitting while she

watched the passing cavalry below.

The velvet straps and silk laces of her bodice accented a full

chemisette of finest lawn; a delicate little apron of the same was

relieved by the scarlet skirt; the dainty, butterfly headdress of black

silk crowned her hair, which hung in two heavy braids.

And, as the cavalry column passed, every big cuirassier, looking up from

the shadow of his steel helmet, saw Alsace itself embodied in this

slender girl who sat knitting and looking down upon France militant out

of quiet, proud eyes.

There was no fanfare, no shouting, no boasting, nothing theatrical. The

troopers looked up from their saddles and rode by, still looking; the

girl knitted quietly, her steady eyes gazing gravely over the needles.

And it was as though Alsace herself were speaking a silent language from

those clear, grey eyes:

"I am waiting; I have been waiting for you more than forty years. Take

what time you need, but come. You will always find me waiting."

Every officer understood it; every giant rider comprehended, as the

squadrons trampled past through a thickening veil of dust which grew

denser, dulling the sparkle of metal and subduing the raw, fierce colors

to pastel tints.

The brigade passed up the valley leisurely, without halting; dust hung

along the road for many minutes after the last cuirassier had walked his

big horse out of view.

Philippa, who had been seated on the window sill with her back toward

Warner's window, left her perch; and Warner turned back into his room to

bathe and dress.

"How long have you been up?" he asked Halkett, who had dropped on a

chair by the window.

"Since sunrise. Madame Arlon is back. She behaved very nicely about

the damage. She doesn't wish me to pay for it, but I shall. Did you

know that your Harem left in a body for Paris yesterday afternoon?"

"Very sensible of 'em," said Warner with a sigh of relief. "How about

you, Halkett?"

"I don't know yet. I'm expecting orders at any moment now."

"How do you know that your country has gone into this war?"

"I learned it last night at the Boule d'Argent. The news had just come

over the wire.

"That precious pair, Meier and Hoffman, whom I had followed to the Boule

d'Argent, were seated there in the cafe reading the newspapers when the

telegram was posted up.

"They got up from their chairs with the other guests who had clustered

around the bulletin to read what had been posted up. I watched their

faces from behind my newspaper, and you should have seen their

expressions--utter and blank astonishment, Warner! Certainly Germany

never believed until the last moment that we had any real intention of

going in."

"I didn't, either, to tell the truth."

Halkett smiled:

"It was inevitable from the very beginning. The hour that Austria flung

her brutal ultimatum into the face of Servia, every British officer knew

that we were going in. It took our politicians a little longer to

realize it, that's all."

Warner finished dressing, and they went downstairs together and across

the grass to the arbor in the garden, where Philippa sat knitting and

talking under her breath to Ariadne, who gazed at her, brilliant-eyed,

purring.

The girl had her back toward them and they made no sound as they

advanced across the turf which bordered the flowers.

"She's talking to the cat; listen!" murmured Halkett.

"--And after many, many years," they heard Philippa saying, "the sad and

patient mother of the two lost children sent out for her five million

servants. 'Go,' she said, 'and search diligently for my little daughters

who were stolen by the fierce old giant, Bosche. And when you come to

where they are imprisoned, you shall know the place, because there is no

place on earth so beautiful, no mountains so tender a blue, no fields so

green and so full of flowers, no rivers so lovely and clear.

"'Also, you shall recognize my little children when you discover them,

because they dress as I am dressed today, in red and black and wearing

the black butterfly. So when you see them behind the bars of their

prison, you shall call to them by name--you shall call out, Alsace!

Lorraine! Be of good courage! Your mother has sent us here to find you

and deliver you from the prison of the Giant Bosche!

"'Then you shall draw your broad, bright bayonets and fix them; and you

who are mounted shall unsling your long, pointed lances; and you who

feed the great steel monsters that roll along on wheels, shall make

ready the monsters' food; and others of you who put on wings and who

mount clattering to the clouds, shall wing yourselves and mount; and you

others who look out over oceans from the tops of tall, steel masts shall

signal for all the anchors to be lifted.

"'Thus you shall prepare to encounter the Giant Bosche, who will come

thundering and trampling and flaming across the horizon, with his black

banners like storm clouds, and advancing amid a roaring iron rain.

"'Thus you shall meet him and hold him, and turn him, and drive him,

drive him, drive him, back, back, back, into the fierce, dark, shaggy

places from whence he crept out into the sun and stole away my little

children.

"'And when that is done, you shall bring me back my children who were

lost, and you shall be their servants as well as mine, dwelling with us

as one family forever, in happiness and honor, dedicating ourselves to

generous and noble deeds as long as the world shall last!' ...

"That, _minette_, is the fairy story which I promised you if you would

be a good cat and wait patiently for breakfast. And you have done so,

and now I have kept my promise----"

She lifted her eyes from her knitting, turned her head over her

shoulder, and saw Warner and Halkett gravely listening.

"Oh," she said, blushing. "Did you hear the story I have been telling

to Ariadne?" She held out her hand to Warner and then to Halkett,

inspecting the latter critically, much interested in his uniform.

"You saw our cuirassiers?" she asked, as they seated themselves at the

table. "So did I. Also, they saw me. I wished them to see me because

I was dressed in this dress. We understood each other, the 'grosse

cavalerie' and I."

"We saw what was going on," said Halkett. "I should say that about two

thousand suitors have been added to your list this morning, Philippa."

She turned shy and a little grave at that, but seeing Warner laughing,

laughed too.

"If I were a great lady," she said, "you might be right. Only from the

saddle could any man dare hope for a smile from me now."

Linette, with the bright color of excitement still brilliant in her

cheeks, brought out the breakfast tray.

"On the quarry road, across the river," she said, "our _fantassins_ are

marching north--thousands of them, messieurs!--and the dust is like a

high white wall against the hills!"

So they hastened with their coffee and rolls; Warner fetched the garden

ladder and set it against the east wall, and all three mounted and

seated themselves on the coping.

What Linette had reported was true: across the Recollette a wall of

white dust ran north and south as far as they could see. Under it an

undulating column tramped, glimmering, sparkling, flowing northward--an

endless streak of dusty crimson where the red trousers of the line were

startlingly visible through the haze.

Watching the stirring spectacle from a seat on the wall beside Philippa,

Warner turned to her presently:

"Do you feel all right this morning?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Your lip is still a trifle swollen."

"I feel quite well." She looked up at him out of her honest grey eyes.

"It is the happiest morning of my life," she said in a low voice.

"Why?"

"For two reasons: I am to remain with you, that is one reason; I have

lived to see what I am looking at yonder, that is the other reason."

"You have lived to help what is going on yonder," remarked Halkett.

She turned, the question in her eyes; and he answered seriously:

"We British are your allies, now."

"Since when, Monsieur?"

"Since yesterday. So what you did for me when you saved my papers, you

did for a friend to France."

Her sudden emotion left her silent; she bent her head and looked down at

her knitting, and leisurely resumed it, sitting so, her legs hanging

down from the wall, the sun striking her silver shoe buckles.

"Do you hear, Philippa?" asked Warner, smiling. "You have added reason

to be proud of the wound on your lip."

She flashed a look at him, laughed shyly, and became very busy with her

knitting and with watching the passing column across the river.

Halkett had unslung his field glasses to inspect them at closer range.

The dusty _fantassins_ were swinging along at a smart route step, rifles

slung, red kepis askew, their bulky luggage piled on their backs and

flopping on their thighs--the same careless, untidy, slipshod infantry

with the same active, tireless, reckless, rakish allure.

Their smartly mounted officers, smartly booted or gaitered, wearing the

smart tunics and gold-laced caps of their arm of the service, seemed

merely to accent the gayly dowdy, ill-fitting uniforms of the little

_fantassins_.

No British officer could, on his soul and conscience, subscribe to such

flapping, misfitting, fag-ends of military accouterments; and as Halkett

watched them a singularly wooden expression came over his pleasant,

youthful features; and Warner, glancing sideways at him, knew why.

"They're very picturesque if a painter handles them properly," he

remarked, amused. "You know what De Neuville did for them."

Philippa, not comprehending, continued to knit and to gaze out of her

lovely grey eyes upon her beloved _fantassins_.

Ariadne, seeing her three friends aloft, presently mounted to the top of

the wall beside them, and sat gravely blinking into space through

slitted eyes.

A glazier had come across the fields from some neighboring hamlet,

bringing with him under his ragged arm some panes of glass and a bag of

implements.

He was in a hurry, because he was expecting that his class would be

called to the colors, but the spectacle of the passing infantry across

the river so fascinated him that he made but a slow job of it.

Toward noon a mounted gendarme, who seemed to know him personally,

shouted, as he rode by, that his class had been called. The little

glazier nodded, smeared the last strip of putty under the last window

pane to be replaced, climbed down from the sill, lifted his hat to the

three people on the wall--possibly including Ariadne in his

politeness--and trotted away across the fields to tie up a few

possessions in a large red handkerchief, and then trot away toward

Chalons, where France needed even the humblest and most obscure of the

children she had nourished through many years for such an hour as was

sounding now.

Philippa, looking after him, was unconsciously stirred to express her

thoughts aloud:

"There must be _something_ I can do," she said.

"You have been among the very first to do something," rejoined Warner.

"Oh, _that_? That was nothing." She pursed up her lips and stared

absently at the troops across the Recollette. "I can knit socks, of

course.... I don't know what else to do.... If anybody wants me I am

here."

"_I_ want you, Philippa," said Warner.

"_Mon ami_, Warner----" She gave him a swift, adorable smile and laid

her hand lightly on his arm for an instant.

Such candid gratitude for friendship he had never read in any eyes

before; the quick response of this friendless girl touched him sharply.

"Of course I want you," he repeated. "Never forget, Philippa, that

where I am you are welcome--not tolerated--_wanted_!"

She continued to knit, looking down steadily. Halkett lowered his field

glasses and glanced at her, then with an odd look at Warner leveled the

glasses again and resumed his study of the distant column.

After a few minutes' silence the girl raised her eyes, and Warner caught

the glint of unshed tears in them.

"It is only happiness," she said in a low voice. "I am not accustomed

to it."

He did not know what to say, for the grey eyes were stirring him very

deeply, and her attitude and their new relationship touched him and

confused him, too.

The responsibility which he had assumed so impulsively, so lightly yet

warmly, began to wear a more serious aspect to him.

Every few moments some new vein of purest metal was unconsciously

revealed in her by her own transparent honesty. He began to understand

that she had not only right instincts, but that her mind was right, in

spite of what she had been since released from school--that her

intelligence was of a healthy order, that she thought right, and that,

untaught or taught otherwise, her conclusions were as direct and sane as

a child's.

"I think, Philippa, we ought to have a business talk this morning," he

said pleasantly.

"To discuss our affairs," she nodded contentedly. "I have my little

account book in my trunk. Shall I get it for you?"

He smiled:

"I didn't intend to examine your financial situation----"

"Oh, but we had better be very clear about it! You see, I have just

_so_ much saved--I shall show you exactly!--and then we can compute

exactly what economies it will be necessary for me to make in order to

maintain myself until we can find employment for me----"

"But, Philippa--" he tried to maintain his gravity--"you need not have

any concern in that regard. First of all, you are on a salary as my

model----"

"Please! I did not wish to be paid for aiding you----"

"But it is a matter of business!"

"I thought--I am happy in being permitted to return a little of your

kindness to me--I do not want anything from you----"

"Kindness!"

"You have let me find a refuge with you----"

"Dear child, I offer you employment until something more suitable

offers. Didn't you understand?"

"Yes, but I did not expect or wish you to pay me--except with

friendship. It is different between us and others, is it not?--I mean

you are my _friend_.... I could not take money from you.... Let it be

only friendship between us. Will you? I have enough to last until I

can find employment. Only let me be with you. That is quite enough for

me, Warner."

Halkett, who had been gazing fixedly through his glasses, remarked that

the column across the river had now passed.

It was true; the wall of dust still obscured the blue foothills of the

Vosges, but the last _fantassin_ had trotted beyond their view and the

last military wagon had rolled out of sight.

Halkett descended from the ladder and went through the house and down

the road in the direction of the schoolhouse, a smart, well-groomed,

well-set-up figure in his light-colored service uniform and cap.

Philippa gathered her knitting into one hand, placed the other in

Warner's, and descended the ladder face foremost, with the lithe,

sure-footed grace of Ariadne, who had preceded them.

"Come to my room," she said, confidently taking possession of Warner's

arm; "I want to show you my account book."

Madame Arlon, who was coming through the hallway, overheard her, gazed

at her unsmilingly, glanced at Warner, whose arm the girl still

retained.

Philippa looked up frankly, bidding the stout, florid landlady a smiling

good morning, and Madame Arlon took the girl's hands rather firmly into

her own, considered her, looked up at Warner in silence.

Perhaps she arrived at some silent and sudden conclusion concerning them

both, for her tightened lips relaxed and she smiled at them and patted

Philippa's hands and went about her affairs, still evidently amused over

something or other. She remarked to Magda in the kitchen that all

Americans were mad but harmless; which distinguished them from

Europeans, who were merely mad.

Upstairs in her bedroom, Philippa was down on her knees rummaging in her

little trunk and chattering away as gay as a linnet to Warner, who stood

beside her looking on.

And at first the pathos of the affair did not strike him. The girl's

happy torrent of loquacity, almost childish in its eagerness and

inconsequential repetition of details concerning the little souvenirs

which she held up for his inspection, amused him, and he felt that she

was very, very young.

All the flimsy odds and ends which girlhood cherishes--things utterly

valueless except for the memories evoked by disinterring and handling

them, these Philippa resurrected from the confused heap of clothing in

her trunk--here a thin gold circlet set with a tiny, tarnished

turquoise, pledge of some schoolmate's deathless adoration--there an

inky and battered schoolbook with girls' names written inside in the

immature chirography of extreme youth and sentiment. And there were

bits of inexpensive lace and faded ribbons, and a blotting pad full of

frail and faded flower-ghosts, and home-made sachets from which hue and

odor had long since exhaled, and links from a silver chain and a few

bright locks of hair in envelopes.

And every separate one of these Philippa, on her knees, held up for

Warner to admire while she sketched for him the most minute details of

the circumstances connected.

Never doubting his interest and sympathy, she freed her long-caged heart

with all the involuntary ecstasy of an escaped bird pouring out to the

clouds the suppressed confidences of many years.

Names, incidents, circumstances almost forgotten even in her brief

solitary life, were now uttered almost unbidden from her ardent lips;

the bright or faded bits of ribbon were held aloft, identified with a

little laugh or sigh, tossed aside, and another relic uncovered and held

out to him.

On her knees before these innocent records of the past, the girl was

showing him everything she knew about herself--showing him herself, too,

and her warm, eager heart of a child.

He was no longer merely amused; he stood listening in silence to her

happy, disjointed phrases, evoked by flashes of memory equally

disconnected.

The happiness connected with her girlish souvenirs faded, however, when

they represented the period following her removal from school.

And yet, for all the loneliness and unhappiness--for all the instinctive

mental revolt, all the perplexity and impatience of these latter

years--their souvenirs she handled tenderly, describing each with that

gentleness and consideration born of intimate personal association.

And at last she discovered her account book, strapped with rubber bands,

and she rose from the floor, drew the only chair up for Warner, and

seated herself on her bed, laying the book open across his knees.

Here, under his eyes, columns of accurately kept figures told the story.

Here everything had been minutely set down--her meager salary, her few

expenses, her rigid economies, her savings during the years of her

employment by Wildresse--a record of self-denial, of rigid honesty, of

childlike perseverance.

As he slowly turned the clearly written pages on his knees, Philippa,

leaning against his shoulder, her fresh young face close to his, pointed

out and explained with her forefinger tracing the written figures.

After he had examined her accounts, she unstrapped her thin little pass

book for him. It was in order and balanced to the end of July.

He closed the books, rested his clasped hands on them, and sat thinking.

His preoccupied expression left her silent, too--or perhaps it was the

slight reaction from her joyous indulgence in loquacity. Reticence

always follows--and always this aftermath of silence is tinged with

sadness.

He was thinking, almost in consternation, how lightly he had assumed

responsibility for a young soul in the making. All of her was still in

the making; the girl was merely beginning to develop in mind and spirit;

and in body her development had not ended.

Her circumstances aside--whatever her origin, whatever her class or

position might have been--he suddenly realized that for him the

responsibility was too great.

Whatever her origin, in her were the elements and instincts of all

things upright. Whatever her place in the social scale, her

intelligence could not be questioned. And, if her recent years had been

passed amid sordid and impossible surroundings and influences, these had

not corrupted her. In her there was no hint of depravity, nothing

unwholesome, nothing spoiled.

Life and endeavor and the right to hope still lay before her; a

theoretical future opened uncontaminated; opportunity alone was her

problem; and his. And he realized his responsibility and was perplexed

and troubled.

"Philippa," he said, looking up at her where she sat on the iron bed,

her cheek resting on her clasped hands, "I am not very aged yet. Do you

realize that?"

"Aged?" she repeated, puzzled.

He laughed and so did she.

"I mean," he said, "that if you and I go about together in this rather

suspicious world, nobody is likely to understand how very harmless and

delightful our friendship is."

She nodded.

"Not that I care," he said, "except on your account. A girl has only one

real asset, as assets and liabilities are now figured out by what we

call civilization. It won't do to have any suspicion attach to this

solitary asset of yours. There must never be any question of your moral

solvency through your friendship for me or mine for you. Do you follow

me?"

"Yes."

"Very well. It remains for us to find out how to remain friends without

hurting you and your prospects in a world, which, as I have explained,

is first of all an incredulous world, and after that the most pitiless

of planets. Do you still follow what I say?"

"Yes."

"Then have you any suggestions?"

"No, Warner."

"What would you prefer to do to support yourself?"

"Anything that permitted me to remain near you."

"I know, Philippa; but I mean, leaving me out of consideration, what do

you prefer to do?"

"I like everything--respectable."

"But what in particular?"

"I don't know; I like to keep accounts; I like to oversee and manage a

household.... I conducted all the departments of the Cafe and Cabaret

de Biribi--I was manager, housekeeper, general director; I hired and

discharged servants, looked after all marketing, all the linen and

tableware, kept all accounts and paid all wages.

"I know how to do such things and I like to do them. It was only the

other--the secret service--which sickened me. Of course it would have

been a great happiness to me if I had been employed in quiet,

respectable, and cultivated surroundings, and not in a public place

where anybody may enter and misbehave."

"I understand," he said thoughtfully. "If it is necessary, then, you

are competent to do your duty as housekeeper in a private house."

"I don't know; I should think so."

"And there is nothing else you prefer?"

Philippa shook her head. Then she picked up her knitting again,

settling herself on the edge of the bed, feet crossed, fingers flying,

delicate face bent gravely over her work. And all at once it seemed to

Warner that her peasant dress was not convincing; that this gay costume

of her province which she wore was only a charming masquerade--the

pretty caprice of a young girl born to finer linen and a purple more

costly--the ephemeral and wayward whim which once had been responsible

for the Little Trianon, and irresponsible to everything else except the

traditions of a caste.

"_Who_ are you, Philippa?" he asked curiously.

"I?" Her lifted eyes were level with his, very sweet and clear, and the

bright needles ceased clicking.

"Don't you know who you are?" he repeated, watching her.

"A foundling.... I told you once."

"Is that all you know?"

"Yes."

"Does _he_ know more than that?"

"He says he does not."

"You have no clew to your parentage?"

"None."

Her gaze became preoccupied, wandered from his, grew vaguely wistful.

"Out of the gutter," she said, without any bitterness in her emotionless

voice. "--Of which circumstance he has frequently reminded me." With

an unconscious movement she extended one exquisitely fashioned hand and

gazed at it absently; looked down at the slim foot, where on the

delicately arched instep a peasant's silver buckle glimmered.

Then, resting her grey eyes on him:

"If it really was the gutter, it is odd," she said, half to herself,

"because always that second self which lives within me goes freshly

bathed and clean and clothed in silk."

"Your second self?"

"My _real_ self--my only comrade. You know, don't you? When one grows

up alone there grows up with one an inner comrade--the truer self....

Otherwise the solitude of life must become intolerable."

"Yes, I understand."

"All lonely children have such a comrade, I suppose. Absolute

self-isolation seems unendurable--actually impossible for a human

being."

She resumed her knitting, meditatively, as a youthful princess might

pick up her embroidery.

"As for the gutter," she said, "--out of the common earth we came, and

we return to it.... Christ wandered, too, in very humble places."

*CHAPTER XX*

About noon a British soldier in uniform and mounted on a motor cycle

came whizzing up to the Golden Peach.

Warner was in his room writing to his bankers in Paris; Philippa, in her

room, was mending underwear; Halkett, who had walked to the school only

to learn that Sister Eila had gone to the quarries, came out of the

garden, where he had been sitting in silence with Ariadne.

The cyclist, a fresh-faced young fellow, saluted his uniform; Halkett

took the dispatches, read them, turned on his heel and went upstairs to

make his adieux. First he knocked on Philippa's door, and when the girl

appeared he took his leave of her with a new and oddly stiff deference

which seemed akin to shyness.

"I am so sorry you are going," she said.

"Thanks, so much. I shan't ever forget my debt to you. I hope you'll

be all right now."

"I shall be all right with Mr. Warner, always. I do hope we shall see

you again."

"If I come out of this----" He checked himself, embarrassed, then he

added hurriedly: "I'll look you up, if I may. I shan't forget you."

His vigorous handclasp almost wrung a cry from her, but she managed to

smile, and he went on down the corridor and knocked at Warner's door.

"Well, old chap, good-by and good luck!"

"What! Have your orders arrived?" exclaimed Warner.

"Just now. I've a motor cyclist below. He takes me behind him to

Ausone. From there I go by rail."

"I'm glad for your sake, Halkett; I'm sorry for my own. It's been a

jolly friendship."

"Yes, considering all the trouble I've put you to----"

"I tell you I liked it! Didn't I make that plain? I was in a rut; I

was turning into an old fluff before you came cannoning into me,

bringing a lively breeze with you. I've never enjoyed anything half as

much!"

"It's kind of you to take it so. You've been very good to me, Warner.

I shan't forget you--or the little lady yonder. I'm sure this doesn't

mean the end of our friendship."

"Not if it lies with us, Halkett. I hope you'll come through. Good

luck, old fellow."

"Thanks! Good luck and good-by."

Their gripped hands parted; Halkett turned, walked toward the stairs,

halted:

"I'll send for my luggage," he said.

"I'll look out for it."

"Thanks. And be civil to Ariadne. She's a friendly old thing!"

"I'll cherish her," said Warner, smiling.

So they parted. He took leave of Madame Arlon and reckoned with her in

British gold; Magda and Linette were made happy with his generosity.

Out on the roadside they saw him swing up behind the soldier cyclist. A

moment later there was only a trail of dust hanging along an empty road.

But Halkett had not yet done with Sais. At the school he dismounted and

ascended the steps.

The schoolroom was empty, the place very still. From a distance came the

voices of children. It was the hour of their noonday recreation.

He entered the quiet schoolroom. On the desk stood a vase of white

clove pinks. He took one, inhaled its fragrance, touched it to his

lips, turned to the door, and suddenly flushed to the roots of his hair.

Sister Eila, on the doorstep, turned her head and looked steadily at the

soldier cyclist for a moment. But a moment was enough.

Yet, still looking away from Halkett, she said in her serene young

voice:

"Your uniform tells me your errand, Monsieur Halkett. You have come for

your papers."

"If I may trouble you----" His voice and manner were stiff and

constrained.

She let her eyes rest on him for a moment:

"A British uniform is pleasant to see in France," she said. "One

moment----" She stepped past him and entered the schoolroom. "I shall

bring you your papers."

He walked slowly out to the road, holding in his hands, which were

clasped behind him, the clove pink. Standing so, he looked across the

fields to the river willows, from whence the shot had come. Slowly,

clear-cut and in full sunshine, the scenes of that day passed through

his mind. And after they had passed he turned and walked back to the

schoolroom.

Sister Eila was seated at her desk, the papers lying before her.

He took them, buttoned them inside his tunic. She sat looking across

the dim room, her elbow on the desk, her chin resting on her palm.

"There is no use trying to thank you," he said with an effort--and

stopped.

After a silence:

"You are going into battle," she said.

"I hope so."

"Yes--I hope so.... God protect you, Mr. Halkett."

He could not seem to find his voice.

Perhaps the silence became unendurable to her; she fumbled for her

rosary, lifted it, and took the metal crucifix between both hands.

"Good-by," he said.

"Good-by." Her eyes did not leave the crucifix.

He stood motionless, crushing his forage cap in his hands. The white

flower broke from its stem and fell to the floor. He bent and picked it

up, looked at it, looked at her, turned and went his way.

The crucifix in her tightening hand grew indistinct, blurring under her

steady gaze. In her ears still sounded the retreating racket of the

motor cycle; the echoes lingered, grew fainter, died out in the golden

gloom of the room.

Sister Eila extended her arms in front of her and laid her colorless

face between them. The room grew very still.

*CHAPTER XXI*

A line regiment came swinging along from the south, its band silent, but

the fanfare of its field music tremendously noisy--bass drums, snare

drums, hunting horns and bugles--route step, springy and slouchy,

officers at ease in their saddles: but, through the clinging aura of the

dust, faces transfigured, and in every eye a depth of light like that

which shines from the fixed gaze of prophets.

Rifles slung, equipments flapping, the interminable files trudged by

under the hanging dust, an endless, undulating blur of red and blue, an

immense shuffling sound, almost melodious, and here and there a

handsome, dusty horse pacing amid the steady torrent.

They occupied only half of the wide, military road; now and then a

military automobile came screaming past them with a flash of crimson and

gold in the tonneau, leaving on the retina a brilliant, glimmering

impression that faded gradually.

On the road across the Recollette, wagons, motor trucks, and field

artillery had been passing for hours; the barrier of dust had grown much

loftier, hanging suspended and unchanging against the hills, completely

obscuring them except for a blue summit here and there.

Fewer troops passed on this side of the river. A regiment of dragoon

lancers rode by about one o'clock--slender, nervous, high-strung

officers, with the horse-hair blowing around their shoulders from their

silver helmets; the sturdy, bronzed young troopers riding with their

lances swung slanting from the arm loops--and all with that still,

fixed, enraptured expression of the eyes, as though under the spell of

inward meditation, making their youthful features dreamy.

In some village through which they had passed, people had hung wreaths

of leaves and flowers around their horses' necks. They still hung

there, wilting in the sun; some, unraveled and trailing, shed dying

blossoms at every step.

From the garden wall where she sat knitting beside Ariadne, Philippa

plucked and tossed rose after rose down into the ranks of the passing

horsemen.

There was no pleasantry, no jesting, scarcely a smile on the girl's lips

or on theirs, but as each trooper caught the flung rose he turned his

helmeted head and saluted, and rode on with the fresh flower touching

his dusty lips.

And so they passed, squadron crowding on squadron, the solid trampling

thunder shaking the earth. Not a trumpet note, not a whistle signal, not

a voice, not a gilded sleeve upflung, not a slim saber lifted--only the

steady, slanting torrent of lances and the running glitter of slung

carbines, and a great flowing blaze of light from acres of helmets

moving through the haze, as in a vision of pomp and pageantry of ancient

days and brave.

Warner came across the fields swinging his walking stick reflectively as

the last peloton rode by.

Philippa looked down at him from her perch on the wall, and, unsmiling,

dropped him a rose.

"Thank you, pretty maiden," he said, looking up while he drew the

blossom through his lapel. "I have something to talk over with you.

Shall I go around and climb up to you, or will you come down and walk to

the river with me?"

"Either will be a pleasure for me. I desire only to be with you," she

said. So frank were her grey eyes that again the dull, inward warning

of his increasing responsibility to her and for her left him silent and

disconcerted.

In his knowledge of her undisguised affection, and of the glamour with

which he realized she had already innocently invested him, he began to

comprehend the power over her which circumstances had thrust upon him.

It was too serious a burden for such a man as he, involved too deep a

responsibility; and he meant to shift it.

"Come and walk with me, then," he said, "--or we'll take the punt, if

you like."

She nodded brightly, rolled up her knitting, looked around at the ladder

in the garden behind her, glanced down at him, which was the shorter

way.

"If I jump could you catch me?"

"I suppose I could, but----"

"Look out, then! Garde a vous!"

He managed to catch her and ease her to the ground, and, as always, she

took possession of his arm with both of hers clasped closely around it,

as though he meditated flight.

"While you are absent," she said, "my thoughts are occupied only with

you. When I have you by me"--her clasp tightened a little--"such

wonderful ideas come to inspire me--you can't imagine! I aspire to be

worthy of such a friendship; I feel that it is in me to be good and wise

and lofty of mind, and to think and believe generously.... Do you

understand me? ... Petty sorrows vanish--the smaller and selfish desires

and aspirations disappear. Into my spirit comes a delicious exultation,

as though being with you cleansed my heart and filled my mind with

ardent and noble thoughts.... I don't know whether you understand. Do

you?"

"I understand that you are a very generous friend, who believes that her

new friend is everything with which her youthful heart invests him."

"And you are!"

"I've got to try to be, now," he said, laughingly. "There is no

unhappiness like that of a broken idol."

"Do I regard you as an idol?"

"Not me, but what your charming fancy pretends is me. I dread the day

you find me out."

"You are laughing at me," she said happily, walking beside him with her

light, springy step. "You may make fun of me; you may say what you

will. _I_ know."

"I think _I_ do, too. And this is what I know, Philippa; you have

within you some very rare and delicate and splendid qualities. Also,

you are very young, and you need a guide----"

"_You!_"

"No."

"What! Of course it's you I need to guide me----"

"Listen. You need a woman--older than yourself----"

"Please!--Warner, my friend----"

"I want you to listen, Philippa."

"Yes."

They walked over the clover in silence for a few moments, then, glancing

at her, he unconsciously tried his power:

"You like and trust me, don't you?"

The girl lifted her grey eyes, and he looked straight ahead of him while

the flush lasted in his face.

He said:

"Because I like and respect you, and because you are my friend, I am

ambitious for you. I want you to have your chance. _I_ can't give it

to you, rightly. No man could do that very successfully or very

prudently.

"While you remain in my employment, of course, we shall see each other

constantly; when, eventually, you secure other employment, we can, at

intervals, meet. But, Philippa, I don't want that sort of chance for

you."

"I don't understand."

"I know you don't. Let me tell you what I have done without consulting

you. If it meets with your approval, the problem of your immediate

future is in a fair way of being solved."

They had reached the bank of the little river: the punt was drawn up

among the rushes; they seated themselves without pushing off.

"Over beyond the woods, yonder," he continued, nodding his head, "is the

Chateau des Oiseaux--a big, old-fashioned country house. A friend of

many years lives there with her younger sister--Madame de Moidrey, the

widow of a French officer. When she was Ethra Brooks, a little American

girl, we were playmates. Her sister, Peggy, attends my painting class.

After Mr. Halkett left, I walked across to the Chateau des Oiseaux, and

I lunched there with Madame de Moidrey."

He hesitated: the girl looked up out of clear eyes that read him.

"Yes; I want you to walk over to the Chateau with me," he said. "Madame

de Moidrey has asked me to bring you.... And if she likes you, and you

like her, she might desire to have you remain as her companion."

The girl remained silent, expressionless. He went on, slowly:

"It would not be like securing employment among strangers. Madame de

Moidrey knows that we are _friends_.... And, Philippa, you are very

young to go into employment among strangers. Not that you cannot take

care of yourself. But it is not a happy experience. Besides, a

personal and sympathetic interest will be wanting--in the beginning at

least. And that will mean loneliness for you----"

"It will mean it anyway if I am to leave you."

"But I shall see you at the Chateau----"

"For a little while yet. Then you will be going back to Paris. And

then--what shall I do?"

The candid tragedy in her eyes appalled him.

"Dear child," he said, "your duties with Madame de Moidrey will keep you

too busy to think about anybody in particular. You will find in her a

friend; you will find happiness there, I am very certain----"

"If you wish it, I will go. But when you leave, happiness departs."

"Philippa, that is nonsense----"

"No... And I had supposed, if I earned my living, that you would permit

me to live with you--or near you somewhere.... Just to know you were

living near me--even if I did not see you every evening--would rest

me.... I had hoped for that, _mon ami_."

"Philippa, dear, it would not do. That is too Bohemian to be anything

safer than merely agreeable. But the surroundings and duties you are

going to have with Madame de Moidrey are exactly what you need and what

I could have desired for any friend of mine in your circumstances."

The girl's head began to droop, where she was seated on the stern seat

of the boat.

He said:

"The influences of such a house, of such a home, of such people, are far

better for you than to saunter out and face the world, depending for

companionship upon a man not yet too old to arouse that fussy world's

suspicion and perhaps resentment. You must have a better purpose in

life."

She remained silent for a few moments, then, not lifting her head, and

her slim hands nervously plaiting her scarlet skirt:

"Anywhere alone with you in the world would be a sufficient purpose in

life for me.... No matter how I earned my bread--if, when toil ended

with evening, you were the reward--and--consolation----" A single tear

fell, glittering; she turned her head sharply and kept it turned.

Deeply touched, even stirred, yet perfectly incredulous of himself, he

sat watching her, not knowing how best to meet such childish loyalty,

such blindly obstinate devotion.

Out of what had such a depth of feeling been born? Out of gratitude for

a pleasant and kindly word or two--an exaggerated sense of obligation

for a few services rendered--services that for sheer and loyal courage

could not match what she had done for Halkett?

And she seemed to be so sane, so clear-thinking, so competent in most

things! This girlish and passionate attachment to him did not conform

to other traits which made up her character and made of her an

individual, specific and distinct.

He said:

"If you were my daughter, and I were in straitened circumstances and

unable to be with you, I should advise you as I have."

Without turning, she answered:

"I am too old and you are too young for us to think of each other in

that way.... I am not a child.... I am unhappy without you. But I care

enough for you to obey you."

"And I care enough for you, Philippa, to remain in Sais as long as you

think you want me," he said.

"What!"

She turned, her glimmering eyes radiant, stretching out both hands to

him.

"You are so good--so good!" she stammered. "The Chateau will frighten

me; I shall be lonely. The world is a very large place to be alone

in.... You are so good!--Stay in Sais a little while yet--just a little

while.... I won't keep you very long from Paris--only let me know you a

little longer.... I couldn't bear it--so soon--the only happiness I

have ever known--to end--so soon----"

"You dear child, if I thought you really needed me----"

"No, I won't let you be more generous than that! Just a few days,

please. And a promise to let me see you again--something to

remember--to wait for----"

"Surely, surely, little comrade. You don't suppose I am going to let

you slip away out of my life, do you? And I don't understand why you are

in such a sudden panic about my going away----"

"But you _are_ going soon!--You were."

"How did you know?"

"Madame Arlon told me that you had already given conge. I didn't care;

I thought I was to go with you. But now that you wish me to go to the

Chateau--it--it frightens me."

He rose, stood looking at her for a moment, turned and paced the river

bank once or twice, then came back to where she was seated.

"Come up to the Chateau now," he said. "I give you this promise,

anyway; as long as you think you want me and need me in the world, you

have only to say so, Philippa. And if I cannot come to you, then you

shall come to me."

He hadn't quite analyzed what he was saying before he said it; he felt a

little confused and uncertain, even now, as to how deeply his promise

involved him. But even while he was speaking, a subtle undercurrent of

approval seemed to reassure him that he was not all wrong, not too rash

in what he promised. Or perhaps it was the very rashness of the impulse

that something obscure within him was approving.

As for the girl, she stood up, tremulous, deep-eyed, trying to smile,

trying to speak but failing, and only taking his arm into her possession

again and clasping it closely with a childishly unconscious and

instinctive sense of possession.

When she found her voice at last, she laughed and pressed her cheek

impulsively against his shoulder.

"Tiens!" she said. "Your Chateau and its chatelaine have no terrors now

for me, Monsieur.... Did you tell her who I am, and what I have been,

and all that you know about me?"

"Yes, I did."

She dropped his arm, but kept step close beside him.

"You know," she said, "it is odd--perhaps it is effrontery--I don't

know--but I, Philippa Wildresse--for want of another name--perhaps

lacking the right to any name at all--am tranquil and serene at heart in

the crisis so swiftly approaching."

"What crisis, Philippa?"

"My interview with a lady of the world, Monsieur--Madame la Comtesse de

Moidrey. The _caissiere de cabaret_ should feel very humble and afraid.

Is it effrontery? What is it that does not disturb me in the

slightest?"

"Perhaps it is that other comrade of many years, Philippa--your other

and inner self."

"It must be. For she could not hesitate to look anybody in the

face--that wonderful and other self--wonderful as a bright dream,

Monsieur.... Which is all she is, I know."

"You are wrong, Philippa: she is even more real than you. And some day

you shall be part of her. You are growing so every hour. And when that

finally happens, then this--all this--will become unreal."

"Not _you_."

"We shall see.... Here are the gates of the Chateau des Oiseaux. It is

you who enter, Philippa; but it shall be your inner and real self who

shall go out through the gates one day--God willing."

The girl smiled at him:

"They have but one soul between them," she said. "And that is yours and

God's, I hope."

*CHAPTER XXII*

Madame de Moidrey, strolling with Warner on the south terrace of the

Chateau des Oiseaux, glanced sideways at intervals through the open

French windows, where, at the piano inside, Philippa sat playing, and

singing in a subdued voice ancient folk songs of the lost provinces.

Peggy Brooks, enchanted, urged her to more active research through the

neglected files of a memory still vivid; Philippa's voice was

uncultivated, unplaced, but as fresh and carelessly sweet as a

blackbird's in May. Some of these old ballads she had picked up from

schoolmates, many from the Cabaret de Biribi, where clients were

provincial and usually sentimental, and where some of the ancient songs

were sung almost every day.

Madame de Moidrey had not immediately referred to Philippa when, with

Warner, she had strolled out to the terrace, leaving the two younger

girls together at the piano.

They had spoken of the sudden and unexpected menace of war, of the

initial movements of troops along the Sais Valley that morning; the

serious chances of a German invasion, the practical certainty that in

any event military operations were destined to embrace the country

around them. Warner seemed very confident concerning the Barrier Forts,

but he spoke of Montmedy and of Mezieres with more reserve, and of

Ausone not at all.

They promenaded for a few minutes longer in silence, each preoccupied

with anxious speculations regarding a future which began already to loom

heavy as a thundercloud charged with unloosed lightnings.

From moment to moment the handsome woman beside him glanced through the

open windows of the music room, where her younger sister and the girl

Philippa were still busily interested in working out accompaniments to

the old-time songs.

Philippa sang "J'ai perdu ma beaute":

"I have lost my beauty--

Fate has bereft me,

Fortune has left me,

None owes me duty.

I have lost my lover;

I shall not recover.

Our Lady of Lorraine,

Pity my pain!"

They paused to listen to this naive melody of other days, then strolled

on.

Madame de Moidrey said:

"She is very interesting, your little friend from Ausone."

"I am glad you think so."

"Oh, yes, there is no doubt about her being clever and intelligent....

I wonder where she acquired her aplomb."

"Would you call it that?"

Madame de Moidrey smiled:

"No, it is a gentler quality--not devoid of sweetness. I think we may

label it a becoming self-possession.... Anyway, it is a quality and not

a trait--if that pleases you."

"She has quality."

"She has a candor which is almost disturbingly transparent. When I was

a girl I saw Gilbert's comedy, 'The Palace of Truth.' And actually, I

believe that your little friend, Philippa, could have entered that

terrible house of unconscious self-revelation without any need of

worrying."

"You couldn't praise her more sincerely if you think that," he said.

"She offers virgin soil for anybody who will take any trouble with her."

"Oh," said Madame de Moidrey, laughing, "I thought I was to engage her

to aid me and amuse _me_; but it seems that _I_ have been engaged to

educate her in the subtler refinements of civilized existence!"

"Don't you want to?" asked Warner, bluntly.

"Dear friend of many more years than I choose to own to, have I not

enough to occupy me without adopting a wandering _caissiere de

cabaret_?"

"Is that the way you feel?" he said, reddening.

"Don't be cross! No; it isn't the way I feel. I do need a companion.

Perhaps your friend Philippa is not exactly the companion I might have

dreamed about or aspired to----"

"If you look at it in that way----"

"Jim! Don't be rude, either! I desire two things; I want a companion

and I wish to oblige you. You know perfectly well I do.... Besides,

the girl is interesting. You didn't expect me to sentimentalize over

her, did you? You may do that if you like. As for me, I shall consider

engaging her if she cares to come to me."

"She will be very glad to," he said, coolly.

Madame de Moidrey cast a swift side glance at him, full of curiosity and

repressed amusement.

"Men," she said, "are the real sentimentalists in this matter-of-fact

world, not women. Merely show a man a pretty specimen of the opposite

sex in the conventional attitude of distress, and it unbalances his

intellect immediately."

"Do you imagine that my youthful friend Philippa has unbalanced my

intellect?" he asked impatiently.

"Not entirely. Not completely----"

"Nonsense!"

"What a bad-mannered creature you are, Jim! But fortunately you're

something else, too. For example, you have been nice about this very

unusual and somewhat perilously attractive young girl. Few men would

have been so. Don't argue! I have known a few men in my time. And I

pay you a compliment."

She stopped and leaned back against a weatherworn vase of stone which

crowned the terrace parapet.

"Listen, Jim; for a woman to take into her house a young girl with this

girl's unknown antecedents and perfectly well-known past performances

ought not to be a matter of romantic impulse, or of sympathy alone. What

you tell me about her, what I myself have already seen of her, are

sufficient to inspire the interest which all romance arouses, and the

sympathy which all lonely youth inspires. But these are not enough.

"Choice of companionship is a matter for serious consideration. You

can't make a companion of the intellectually inferior, of one who

possesses merely the lesser instincts, of any lesser nature, whether

cultivated to its full extent or otherwise. You know that. We shun what

is not congenial."

He looked at her very intently, the dull red still flushing his face;

and she surveyed him critically, amiably, amused at his attitude, which

was the epitome of everything masculine.

"What are you going to do about her?" he inquired at last.

"Offer to engage her."

"As what?"

"A companion."

"Oh. Then you _do_ appreciate her?"

Madame de Moidrey threw back her pretty head and laughed with delicious

abandon.

"Perhaps I don't appreciate her as deeply as you do, Jim, but I shall

humbly endeavor to do so. Now, suppose, when you go back to the Golden

Peach, you send Philippa's effects up here, and in the meanwhile I'll

begin my duty of finishing Philippa's education--for which duty, I

understand, I'm engaged by you----"

"Ethra, you are a trump! And I don't really mind your guying me----"

"Indeed, I'm not guying you, dear friend! I'm revealing to you the

actual inwardness of this entire and remarkable performance of yours.

And if you don't know that you are engaging me to finish this young

girl's education while you're making up your mind about your sentiments

concerning her, then it's time you did."

"That is utterly----"

"Please! And it's all the truer because you don't believe it! ... Jim,

the girl really _is_ a pathetic figure--simple, sweet, intelligent, and

touchingly honest.... And I'll say another thing.... God knows what

mother bore her, what parents are responsible for this young thing--with

her delicate features and slender body. But it was not from a pair of

unhappy nobodies she inherited her mind, which seems to seek

instinctively what is fine and right amid the sordid complexities of the

only world she has ever known.

"As for her heart, Jim, it is the heart of a child--with one heavenly

and exaggerated idol completely filling it. _You!_ ... And I tell you

very plainly that, if I were a man, the knowledge of this would frighten

me a little, and make me rather more serious than many men are inclined

to be."

He bit his lip and looked out across the southern valley, where already

the August haze was growing bluer, blurring the low-hanging sun.

She laid a friendly, intimate, half humorous hand on his arm:

"In all right-thinking men the boy can never die. No experience born of

pain, no cynicism, no incredulity acquired through disappointment, can

kill the boy in any man until it has first slain his soul. Otherwise,

chivalry in the world had long since become extinct.

"You have done what you could do for Philippa. I am really glad to help

you, Jim. But from now on, be very careful and very sure of yourself.

Because now your real responsibility begins."

He had not thought of it in that way. And now he did not care to.

To sympathize, to protect, to admire--these were born of impulse and

reason, which, in turn, had their origin in unconscious condescension.

To applaud the admirable, to express a warm concern for virtue in

difficulties, meant merely sincere recognition, not the intimacy of that

equality of mind and circumstance which existed per se between himself

and such a woman as Madame de Moidrey.

The very word "protection" implies condescension, conscious or

unconscious. We may love what we protect; we never, honestly, place it

on a pedestal, or even on a mathematical level with ourselves. It can't

be done.

And so, in a vague sort of way, Warner remained incredulous of the

impossible with which Madame de Moidrey had smilingly menaced him.

Only, of course, she was quite right; he must not thoughtlessly arouse

the woman in the girl Philippa.

But there is nothing in the world that ought more thoroughly to arouse

the best qualities of manhood in a man than the innocent adoration of a

young girl. For if he could really believe himself to be even a shadow

of what she believes he is, the world might really become the most

agreeable of residential planets.

As Warner and Madame de Moidrey entered the music room through the open

French windows, Philippa turned from the piano and her soft voice died

out in the quaint refrain she had been accompanying.

She rose instinctively, which was more than Peggy did, having no

reverence for age in her own sister--and Madame de Moidrey came forward

and took the girl's slender hands in hers.

"Have you concluded to remain with me?" she asked, smilingly.

"I did not understand that you had asked me," said the girl gravely.

"I do ask you."

Philippa looked at Warner, then lifted her grey eyes to the elder woman.

"You are very kind, Madame. I--it will be a great happiness to me if

you accept my services."

The Countess de Moidrey regarded her, still retaining her hands, still

smiling.

"You have a very sweet way of making the acceptance mine and not yours,"

she said. "Let us accept each other, Philippa. Will you?"

"You are most kind, Madame----"

"Can kindness win you?"

"Madame, it has already."

The American widow of the recent Count de Moidrey felt a curious

sensation of uncertainty in the quiet self-possession of this young

girl--in her serenity, in her modulated voice and undisturbed manner.

An odd idea persisted that the graciousness was not entirely on her own

part; that there was something even more subtle than graciousness on the

part of this girl, whose delicate hands lay, cool and smooth, within her

own.

It was not manner, for there was none on Philippa's part; not reticence,

for that argues a conscious effort or a still more conscious lack of

effort. Perhaps, through the transparent simplicity of the girl, the

older woman's intuition caught a glimpse of finer traditions than she

herself had been born to--sensed the far, faint ring of finer and more

ancient metal.

And after a moment she felt that courtesy, deference, and propinquity

alone held Philippa's grave grey eyes; that the soul which looked

fearlessly and calmly out of them at her could not be lightly flattered

or lightly won; and that, released from their conventional duty, those

clear eyes of grey would seek their earthly idol as logically as the

magnetic needle swings to its magnet.

Very subtly, as she stood there, the sympathy of the older woman widened

to include respect. And, unconsciously, she turned and looked at Warner

with the amused and slightly malicious smile of a woman who detects in a

man the characteristic obtuseness from which her own and feminine

instinct has rescued her just in time to prevent mistakes.

Then, turning to Philippa, she said:

"Our family of _three_ is a very small one, dear, but I think it is

going to be a happy one.... What was that song that you and Peggy were

trying when we came in?"

"It is called 'Noblesse Oblige,' Madame. It is a very ancient song."

"It is as old as the world," said the Countess. "Peggy, will you try the

accompaniment? And will you sing it, Philippa?"

"If you wish it, Madame."

The Countess de Moidrey stepped aside and seated herself; the grey eyes

left her to seek and find their magnet; and, having found it, smiled.

As for the magnet himself, he stood there deep in perplexity and

trouble, beginning slowly to realize how profoundly his mind and

affections had already become involved in the fate of a very young girl,

and in the problems of life which must now begin to threaten and

confront her.

"Namur, Liege--

Le dur siege

Noblesse oblige

sang Philippa--

"Namurois, Liegeois,

La lois des Bois

Exige

Noblesse--noblesse oblige--"'

The Countess de Moidrey rested her face on her hand, looking curiously

at the young girl from whose lips the old phrase fell so naturally, so

confidently, with such effortless and inborn

understanding--_noblesse--noblesse oblige_.

*CHAPTER XXIII*

Philippa's trunk had gone to the Chateau des Oiseaux, and the Inn of the

Golden Peach knew her no longer.

Warner, who usually adored the prospect of a month all alone after his

class had left for the season, found to his surprise that he was

experiencing a slight sense of loneliness.

The inn, the garden, seemed to him uncommonly still; and at first he

thought he missed the gallinaceous chatter of the Harem, then he was

very sure that he regretted Halkett acutely.

Ariadne, sitting in the sun by the deserted summer-house in the garden,

always greeted him with a plaintive little mew which, somehow or other,

sounded to him pointedly reproachful.

The cat evidently missed Halkett, perhaps Philippa. Warner remembered

that he had been requested to be polite and agreeable to Ariadne, and,

whenever he recollected these obligations, he dutifully hoisted the

animal to his shoulder and promenaded her. For which, no doubt, the cat

was grateful, but as she was also beginning to shed her coat in

preparation for a brand-new set of winter furs, Warner found the

intimacy with Ariadne slightly trying.

There were no other guests at the inn. Now and then during the next

three or four days officers stopped their automobiles for a few moments'

refreshment, or to replenish their gasoline tanks. But early one

morning a big motor truck, driven by a little, red-legged, boyish

_pioupiou_, and guarded by three others, equally youthful, took away the

entire supply of gasoline and ordered Madame Arlon to remove the sign

advertising it.

They drove away through the early autumn sunshine, singing the "Adoro,"

not the one best known, but that version attributed to the Scottish

Queen, and they looked and sang like three little choir boys

masquerading in the uniforms of their fathers.

Warner had been sketching in the meadow across the road that day,

feeling restless and unaccountably depressed. It was one of those

still, hazy mornings in early August, when the world seems too quiet and

the sky too perfect for inaction or repose.

He had pitched his easel near the river, perhaps because it remained

busy; and where, if any troops or military trains passed along the

quarry road, he could see them. Also, from there he could look down

over the road hedge and see the motor cycles whiz by and military

automobiles with a streak of crimson, turquoise and silver uniforms in

the tonneau.

But none came. Two or three gendarmes, with white and yellow trappings,

passed toward Ausone at a gallop while he sat there, but across the

river nothing stirred save a kestrel soaring.

According to the _Petit Journal d'Ausone_ of the day before, war had

already burst over eastern Belgium full blast and the famous forts so

long celebrated as impregnable were beginning to crumble away under an

avalanche of gigantic shells.

As he sat there under the calm sky, painting leisurely, relighting his

pipe at intervals, he tried to realize that such things as bombardments

and sieges and battles were going on to the north of where he was--not

so very far north, either. But he could not seem to grasp it as an

actual fact. For the monstrous and imbecile actuality of such a war

seemed still to remain outside his comprehension; his intelligence had

not yet accepted it--not encompassed and digested the fact--and he could

not get rid of the hopefully haunting feeling that presently somebody or

something somewhere or other would stop all this amazing insanity, and

that the diplomats would begin again where they had left off only a few

days ago.

It was the illimitable proportions of the calamity--the magnitude of the

catastrophe--the cataclysmic menace of it that still left his mind

slightly stunned, as it had paralyzed the minds of every civilized human

being, and suspended for a space the power of thought in the world.

As yet, all these enormous, impossible threats of governments and

emperors seemed to be some gigantic, fantastic, and grotesque hoax which

the sovereigns and chancelleries of Europe were playing in concert to

frighten a humdrum world out of its five dull wits.

And yet, under the incredulity, and the mental obscurity and inertia,

deep within the dazed hearts of men a measured and terrible pulse had

already begun to throb steadily, with an unchanging and dreadful rhythm.

It was the clairvoyant prophecy of the world's subconscious self

stirring, thrilling to that red future already breaking, and warning all

mankind that the day of wrath had dawned at last.

But to Warner the most unreal part of it all was not the dusty

_fantassins_ in column, slouching forward toward the north--not the

clinking, jingling cuirassiers on their big battle horses, not the

dragoons riding with rapt, exalted faces under forests of tall lances,

not the clanking artillery, the heavy military wagons and motor trucks,

nor the galloping gendarmes which passed the inn every hour or two.

What had become suddenly unreal to him was the green and sunlit serenity

of the world itself--the breeze ruffling the clover, poppies glowing

deep in fields of golden wheat and barley, the melody of the flowing

river, the quiet blue overhead, the tenderness of leaf and blossom, and

the blessed stillness of the world.

Relighting his pipe, he looked at the swallows soaring and sailing high

above the Recollette; noticed butterflies hovering and flitting

everywhere; heard the golden splashing of the river, the sigh of leaves

and rushes. The word "war" still remained a word to him, but in the

sunshine and the silence he began to divine the immobility of

menace--something unseen and evil which was quietly waiting.

Ariadne had come across from the garden, ostensibly to hunt meadow mice,

really for company.

Sniffing and snooping around his color box, she got one dainty whisker

in the ultramarine, and had enough of art. So she went off, much

annoyed, to sit by herself in the grass and do some scrubbing. After a

while the fixed persistency with which she stared across the meadow

attracted his attention and he, also, turned and looked that way.

As he saw nothing in particular to stare at, he presently resumed his

sketching and his troubled thoughts. The latter concerned the girl

Philippa. Not since he had taken her to the Chateau had he seen her.

And that was four days ago.

He didn't know exactly why he had not strolled over. Possibly a vague

idea that he had better not interfere to distract the girl's attention

from her first lessons in the refinements of existence had kept him away

from her vicinity.

He didn't even know that he had missed her; he knew only that for some

occult reason or other he had felt rather lonely lately.

He painted away steadily, pausing to relight his pipe now and then, and

all the while Ariadne, never stirring, stared persistently across the

landscape, neglecting her uncleansed whisker.

Suddenly, with a little mew of recognition and greeting, she trotted

forward through the grass; and the next moment two soft hands fell

lightly upon Warner's shoulders from behind.

"Philippa!" he exclaimed, enchanted.

"Oh, Jim!" she cried joyously, abandoning both hands to him as he sprang

to his feet and faced her.

She was so eager, so pretty in her unfeigned delight, as though it had

been four years instead of four days since they had seen each other; and

he seemed to feel something of this, also, for he held her hands closely

and laughed without any apparent reason for mirth--unless the sheer

contentment of contact and possession be a reason.

"Are you well and happy, Philippa?"

"Yes, I am happy enough up there. But, oh, how dreadfully I have missed

you, Jim--may I call you Jim?--I do to myself----"

"Of course!"

"I _think_ of you that way--so it came very naturally to my lips--if you

really don't mind? And besides, I am so happy to be with you.... Peggy

Brooks and I were looking over maps in the library--you know, the _Petit

Journal_ says that the Prussians are firing enormous shells into

Liege--and so Peggy and I were down on our knees over the maps of

Belgium. Oh, dear! You know, it isn't so very far from us here if you

take a ruler and measure by scale.... And it seemed to sober us

both--we had been laughing, I don't remember exactly what about--but

studying the map made us both serious, and Peggy went upstairs to talk

it over with the Countess, and I felt that I couldn't stand being away

from you for a single minute longer!"

"You dear child!"

"So I asked Peggy to ask Madame de Moidrey if I might pay you a little

visit, and she said, 'Of course.' So I came as fast as I could----"

She laughed and made a sweeping gesture with both arms outflung: "And

here I am! Are you contented?"

She stooped and stroked Ariadne, looking up to smile at him.

"Careful of her whisker; there is blue paint on it," he warned Philippa;

but the girl wiped off the ultramarine with a green leaf and took the

cat to her heart, covering her with caresses and murmuring endearments.

"Jim, dear, what do _you_ think?" she asked presently.

"About what?"

"About the war?"

He said gravely:

"I don't quite understand how those magnificent Belgian forts are being

knocked to pieces--if what the paper says is true. I supposed them to

be among the strongest fortifications in the world."

"Madame de Moidrey says they are. Her husband, the late Count Victor,

was an artillery officer. And she told Peggy and me that the Count de

Moidrey had always said they were the very strongest forts in the

world."

"_Something's_ gone wrong; that is evident," said Warner. "But not with

_you_, Philippa," he added, smiling at her. "I never saw you looking as

well; and that's a tremendously fetching frock you're wearing."

It was a white outing gown of serge, and the girl wore white stockings

and tennis shoes, and a soft white hat--a boyish headgear which became

her enchantingly.

"Peggy gave it to me," she said. "It is very American, isn't it?"

"It's adorable on _you_. Do you like Peggy Brooks?"

"Yes."

"And Madame de Moidrey?"

"Yes, I do--rather."

"Not entirely?"

"Jim----"

"What?"

"Yes, I--yes, I do like her.... But I don't do much to earn my wages.

And that troubles me."

"Your salary?"

Philippa laughed:

"Wages, salary--what does it matter what you call them, when both merely

mean pay for work performed.... I should like to do something for Madame

de Moidrey in return. But she has many servants and a maid and a

housekeeper. I thought I was to read to her, write letters for her,

amuse her. But she sometimes reads to me and she and Peggy are teaching

me to play tennis----" Philippa held out one narrow foot for his

inspection. "And yesterday she ordered a horse for me, as well as for

herself and her sister, and I wore one of Peggy's riding habits--knee

breeches and boots, Jim; and they set me on a horse! _That_ is the way

I am earning my wages at the Chateau des Oiseaux!"

"Why complain?" he asked, much amused.

"Because I am unable to return such favors----"

"Don't worry; whatever they do for you brings its own recompense."

"How?"

"Has it never occurred to you that your society is agreeable,

interesting, amusing, and desirable?"

"No," she said, honestly surprised.

"Well, it is! People like you. You yourself amply recompense anybody

for anything done for you, by accepting the attentions offered."

"Do _you_ think of me in that way?"

He hadn't quite understood until then that he did feel that way about

her, but he felt it now so strongly that it seemed as though he had

always been of that mind.

"I've always thought so," he said. "There is never a dull moment with

you, Philippa. No wonder people seek you and like you and pet you!"

Philippa blushed and tried to smile, then for a moment she buried her

flushed face in Ariadne's fluffy fur until her cheeks cooled.

"If," she said, "I had a home and an income, however tiny, I should not

feel at all embarrassed by courtesies from others, because I should, in

my turn, offer the best I possessed. But, Jim--a homeless girl--with

all that I have been--endured!--I don't know--but I should feel more

comfortable if I could be of some service in return for all that these

very kind Americans offer me."

She placed Ariadne on the grass, turned and looked down at the river.

"There is my punt," she said. "Isn't it curious to remember that you

and I first became friends in that boat? It seems to have happened very

long ago, when I was a child.... You made me wash my face; do you

remember?"

"I do," he replied gayly. "You looked like a schoolgirl made up for the

part of Jezebel."

She blushed and hung her head. Presently her lowered eyes were raised

to him in a distressed, questioning way, and he came over to her and put

his hands on her shoulders.

"I never thought ill of you, Philippa--never doubted you were anything

except what you really are."

She looked up into his eyes:

"I don't know what I really am. But I am beginning to understand that I

can be whatever you desire. Also, I am beginning to understand how

generous you have been to me in your thoughts. Both you and Mr. Halkett

had every reason to think lightly of the _caissiere_ of the Cabaret de

Biribi, with her painted lips and cheeks and her easy manners----" She

shrugged. "And perhaps, but for the grace of God and you, I should have

become what I appeared to be.... Let us sit in the punt. Shall we?"

They went down to the river together, Ariadne marching at their heels

with tail erect, and the girl stepped aboard and seated herself in the

stern which, afloat, swung in the limpid eddy among the tall, green

rushes.

When Warner also was seated, at her feet, she drew from the pocket of

her white serge jacket a letter, and, leaning over him, opened and

displayed it.

The letter was written in French on common writing paper, in a perfectly

legible but uneducated hand.

MADEMOISELLE [it began],

You are watched and your present whereabouts is known. You are warned to

keep your mouth shut. Any treachery, even any slight indiscretion on

your part, will be fully revenged by those you betray.

The wages of a traitor are death. Be advised in time. Return to your

duty while there is yet time and your present ingratitude will be

forgiven.

Make up your mind at once. There is no time to waste. _What is to

happen shall happen! It is coming very fast. It is almost upon us_.

The safety which you suppose that the present condition of affairs

guarantees you is but momentary. Peril threatens you; certain

punishment awaits you. Documents in possession of those whom you

threaten to betray are sufficient to condemn you now.

And more than that: we hold over you the power of life and death; and

shall hold it, _no matter what happens in Ausone_!

Either way we can destroy you.

Return to us, therefore; accept forgiveness while there is yet time.

You know who has caused this to be written. Therefore, enough!

Return and find security; remain to betray us and you shall be shot!

When Warner finished reading this outrageous missive, he looked up into

Philippa's undisturbed face, and she smiled.

"When did you receive this?" he demanded.

"It came in the noon mail yesterday."

"Of course it's from Wildresse."

"Of course," she said simply. "What do you think of it?"

"I think very little of it," he replied. "Threatened people are good

insurance risks. If he could have harmed you, he'd not have troubled to

write you about his amiable designs on you.... It's a pity--a great

pity, Philippa--that we dare not call in the police."

"If I have written, innocently, the things he says I have written and

signed, it might go hard with me if he were arrested," she said.

"I know it. It can't be done--at any rate, it can't be done yet. If

there were anywhere you could go--any frontier that might be a barrier

of safety for you! But all Europe seems to be involved--all neutral

frontiers violated--even the Grand Duchy has become a German

thoroughfare.... Let me think it over, Philippa. I don't know how

dangerous to you that miserable rascal can become.... But Halkett was

right: as long as you are in France, it won't do to denounce Wildresse."

"You understand, Jim, that I am not alarmed," she said gently, watching

his anxious and clouded features. "I know that. I think I have reason

to bear testimony concerning your courage----"

"I did not mean it in that way----"

"I understand, dear. Those who amount to anything never have to say so.

I know you are not afraid.... Shall I keep that letter for you?"

She handed it to him. He pocketed it and sat for a while in silence,

his brooding eyes on the blue distance.

Finally, with an effort, his face cleared, and he said cheerfully:

"It is the strangeness and unreality of these last few days which

depresses everybody. As a matter of fact, the war has lent a certain

almost dignified terror to the attitude and the petty operations of a

very vile and squalid band of malefactors in a small, provincial town.

"These fellows are nothing but cheap dealers in blackmail; and the last

thing they'd do would be to invoke the law, of which they stand in

logical and perpetual fear.

"No, no! All this hint of political and military vengeance--all this

innuendo concerning a squad of execution, is utter rot.

"If they've dabbled in the bartering of military information, they'll

keep clear of anything resembling military authority. No; I'm not

worried on that point.... But I think, if Madame de Moidrey cares to ask

me, that I should like to be a guest at the Chateau des Oiseaux for the

next few days."

"Jim!" she exclaimed, radiant.

"Do you want me?" he asked, pretending astonishment.

And so it happened that after luncheon Warner locked up his room and

studio in the pretty hostelry of the Golden Peach, gave orders for his

trunk to be sent to the Chateau, and started across the fields toward

the wooded heights, from whence had come over the telephone an amused

voice inviting him to be the guest of the Countess de Moidrey.

When he arrived, Madame de Moidrey was sewing alone on the southern

terrace, and she looked up laughingly and extended her hand.

"So you're in the web at last," she said. "I predicted it, didn't I?"

"Nonsense, Ethra. I came because Philippa has received a threatening

letter from that scoundrel, Wildresse."

"I know. The child has told me. Is it worth worrying over?"

"Not at all," said Warmer contemptuously. "That sort of thing is the

last resort of a badly frightened coward. Only I thought, considering

the general uncertainty, that perhaps you and Peggy might not be

displeased to have a rather muscular man in the house."

"As a matter of fact, Jim, I had thought of asking you. Really, I had.

Only--" she laughed--"I was afraid you might think I was encouraging you

in something else----"

"See here, Ethra! You don't honestly suppose that there is anything

sentimental in my relations with Philippa, do you?"

"Isn't there?"

"No," he said impatiently.

Madame de Moidrey resumed her sewing, the smile still edging her

pleasant lips:

"She _is_ very young yet, in many things; all the enchanting candor and

sweetness of a child are hers still, together with a poise and quiet

dignity almost bewildering at moments.... Jim, your little, nameless

protegee is simply fascinating!"

He spoke quietly:

"I'm only too thankful you find her so."

"I do. Philippa is adorable. And nobody can make me believe that there

is not good blood there. Why, speaking merely of externals, every

feature, every contour, every delicate line of her body is labeled

'race.' There is never any accident in such a result of breeding. In

mind and body the child has bred true to her race and stock--that is

absurdly plain and perfectly evident to anybody who looks at her, sees

her move, hears her voice, and follows the natural workings of her

mind."

"Yes," said Warner, "Halkett and I decided that she had been born to

fine linen and fine thoughts. Who in the world can the child be, Ethra?"

Madame de Moidrey shook her head over her sewing:

"I've found myself wondering again and again what the tragedy could have

been. The man, Wildresse, may have lied to her. If some day he could

be forced to tell what he knows----"

"I have thought of that.... I don't know, Ethra.... Sometimes it is

better to leave a child in untroubled ignorance. What do you think?"

"Perhaps.... But, Jim, there is no peasant ancestry in that child, I am

sure, whatever else there may be."

"Just rascally aristocracy?"

The Countess de Moidrey laughed. She had married for love; she could

afford to.

"I am Yankee enough," she said, "to be sensitive to that subtle and

indescribable something which always characterizes the old French

aristocracy. One is always aware of it; it is never absent; it clings

always as the perfume clings to an ancient cabinet of sandalwood and

ivory.

"And, Jim, it seems to me that it clings, faintly, to the child

Philippa.... It's an odd thing to say. Perhaps if I had been born to

the title, I might not have detected it. What is familiar from birth is

rarely noticed. But my unspoiled, nervous, and Yankee nose seems to

detect it in this young girl.... And my Yankee nose, being born

republican, is a very, very keen one, and makes exceedingly few

mistakes."

"You intend, then, to keep her as a companion for the present?"

"If she will stay. I don't quite know whether she wants to. I don't

entirely understand her. She does not seem unhappy; she is sweet,

considerate, agreeable, and perfectly willing to do anything asked of

her. She is never exacting; she asks nothing even of the servants.

It's her attitude toward them which shows her quality. They feel

it--they all are aware of it. My maid adores her and is forever hanging

around to aid her in a hundred little offices, which Philippa accepts

because it gives pleasure to my maid, and for that reason alone.

"I tell you, Jim, if anybody thinks Philippa complex, it is a mistake.

Her heart and mind are virginal, whatever her experience may have been;

she is as simple and unspoiled as the children of that tall young King

yonder, Albert of Belgium--God bless him! And that is the truth

concerning Philippa--upon whom a suspicious world is going to place no

value whatever because no rivets, ecclesiastical or legal, have

irrevocably fastened to her the name she bears in ignorance of her own."

Peggy Brooks, a dark-haired, fresh-faced girl, came out on the terrace,

nodded a familiar greeting to Warner, and looked around in search of

Philippa.

Her sister said in a low voice:

"Peggy is quite mad about her. They get along wonderfully. I wonder

where the child is? She expected you."

"Ethra," said Peggy, "I've given her one of my new afternoon gowns. I

_made_ her take it, on a promise to let her pay me out of her salary.

Mathilde is fussing over her still, I suppose." And to Warner: "I'm

painting a head of her. She sits as still as a statue, but it's

hopeless, Jim; the girl's too exquisite to paint----"

"I mean to try it some day," said Warner. "The way to paint her, Peggy,

is to try to treat her as the great English masters of portraiture

treated their grand ladies---with that thoroughbred loveliness and

grace--just a dash of enchanting blue sky behind her, and the sun-gilded

foliage of stately trees against it, and her scarf blowing free----" He

laughed. "Oh, I know how it _ought_ to be done. We shall see what we

shall see, some day----"

He ceased and turned his head. Philippa stepped out upon the

terrace--the living incarnation of his own description.

Even Peggy caught her breath as the girl came forward.

"You beautiful thing!" she exclaimed. "You do belong in a golden frame

in some great English castle!"

Philippa, perplexed but smiling, acknowledged Madame de Moidrey's

presence and Peggy's, then turned to Warner with hand extended, as

though she had not taken a similar leave of him an hour or two before.

"Everybody is so generous! Do you admire my new gown? Peggy gave it to

me. Never have I possessed such a ravishing gown. That is why I am

late; I stood at my mirror and looked and looked----"

She turned swiftly to Peggy: "Dear, I am too happy to know how to say

so! And if Madame de Moidrey is contented with me----"

"You are too lovely for words, Philippa," said the Countess. "If Mr.

Warner paints you that way, I shall wish to have the picture for

myself."

"Aha!" exclaimed Warner. "A commission!"

"Certainly," said the Countess. "You may begin as soon as Philippa is

ready."

"Very well," said he. "If I paint the picture, you promise to hang it

in the Chateau as a memento of Philippa, do you?"

"I do."

"Then there'll be no charge for this important major operation.

Philippa, will you take ether tomorrow morning?"

The girl laughed and nodded, looking up at him from where she was seated

beside the Countess, examining the sewing.

"Could I not do this for you, Madame?" she said.

"But I like to sew, Philippa."

The girl smiled, then a slight sigh escaped her. The Countess looked up

at her, and Philippa smiled again, saying:

"There seems to be nothing within my power to do for you, Madame."

"There _is_ something," said Madame de Moidrey under her breath.

"What, if you please?"

"I want you to like me, Philippa.... And if some day you could learn to

love me, that would be the rarest gift that could be offered me."

The girl's grey eyes widened in utter surprise; suddenly they sparkled

with tears, and she bent her head swiftly and touched the elder woman's

hands with her own.

"Madame," she whispered, "you overwhelm me with your kindness.... If

only I could express my gratitude----"

She checked herself as Maurice, the head gardener, appeared, hat in

hand, deep anxiety stamped on his seamed and sunburnt features.

"Pardon, Madame la Comtesse--there is a great fire somewhere in the

north. I thought Madame should be told----"

"A fire? What is it? The forest, Maurice?"

"Oh, it is very far away, Madame. Perhaps it is a forest on fire....

But there is a sound, too. One may see and hear from the northern

terrace when the wind sets in."

"Is it as far away as Ausone?"

"Farther, Madame."

The Countess glanced at Warner, rose, retaining Philippa's hand.

"Thank you, Maurice," she said over her shoulder, and, passing her arm

through Philippa's, she entered the house, followed by Warner and Peggy.

"What do you suppose alarms old Maurice?" whispered Peggy.

But Warner, vastly troubled, made no answer.

*CHAPTER XXIV*

Below the carved stone balustrade of the north terrace acres and acres

of tree tops--oak, beech, birch, and fir--spread away on every side.

This was the Foret des Oiseaux.

Beyond the dense green surface of the tree tops, which was so compact

that it resembled a wide and gently rolling plateau, the country

stretched away toward Ausone. Here and there some distant farmhouse

window sparkled in the sun; set amid banks of velvet green the

Recollette glittered like severed fragments of a silver thread.

Bathed in a mauve haze the Ausone Fort stood out on its conical,

tree-clad hill; beyond it other hillocks rose, lilac-tinted silhouettes

against the horizon.

Turquoise, palest violet, tender green and gold, the country lay

revealed under the August sky, peaceful, glimmering, silent.

And across this dainty harmony of color was smeared a somber, discordant

smudge, staining the delicate haze of amethyst, defiling the pure sky--a

wide, high area of dirty smoke, leaning from the perpendicular toward

the east, spilling its dun-colored vapor downward over the pale

aquarelle of hill and river and valley.

"The Alcyon Forest is afire!" exclaimed the Countess in a low voice.

"It is much farther away," said Warner.

A sudden breeze sprang up, blowing in their faces over the swaying tree

tops.

"Listen!" said Philippa, touching her lips with one finger.

From an infinite distance the wind carried with it a deadened thumping

sound, now regular as the dulled rolling of drums, now softly irregular,

with intervals of stillness, then again spasmodic, muffled, almost

inaudible.

"Are they threshing anywhere near us?" asked the Countess of her sister.

"What is that pumping sound?" She turned to Warner, who made no reply.

"Do you know what it is, Jim?" demanded Peggy Brooks uneasily.

"I'm not absolutely sure.... I'll be back in a moment----" He turned

and went swiftly into the house.

Philippa, leaning on the balustrade beside the Countess, said very

quietly:

"I know what that sound is. I have heard it before from the outer

boulevard in Ausone, when the grand maneuvers were going on."

The Countess said:

"I was afraid it was that."

"Drums?" asked Peggy Brooks.

"Cannon," said Philippa.

Warner came back with his field glasses.

Studying the horizon, he spoke at intervals in his pleasant, undisturbed

voice:

"They have cleared the Ausone Fort; the flag, the semaphore, the signal

tower--all are gone; there is nothing to be seen there except trees....

It looks like any hill now; nothing is stirring on it.... This glass

brings the smoke much nearer, but it is impossible to guess what is on

fire.... I don't think it's a forest.... I'm afraid it is a village."

He offered the glass to the others; each took a turn and made out

nothing new until Philippa, gazing above the discoloring stain of smoke,

spoke to Warner in a low voice and handed him the glasses.

For a few moments he stood rigid, his field glasses poised at an angle;

then, still watching at the same angle, he said:

"You are perfectly right, Philippa; two aeroplanes are soaring between

the smoke and the Ausone Fort."

One by one the others searched for the distant sky craft and discovered

them.

They were still at it when tea was served, and, by that time, the

deadened drumming sound had become unmistakable, increasing in volume

with every lightest puff of wind, and, when the breeze died out, still

filling the ears with its steady thudding.

Also, the dirty smoke-smear had spread, polluting the tender northern

sky, and new centers of infection had appeared here and there amid the

green landscape--dark spots of smoke which, at first, appeared

insignificant and motionless, which were bigger in ten minutes, which in

half an hour had become volumes. Yet their actual growing process was

not perceptible, so gradually the looming spots assumed the threatening

proportions of gloom.

Warner, his teacup on his knees, bracketed the field glasses on the

aeroplanes once more, and was startled at their nearness.

Almost at the same instant a dry crack, like the breaking of a stick,

sounded, coming from the direction of the distant fort--another,

another, others following in quicker succession. And, watching, he saw

below the aeroplanes a dotted line of tiny white spots, growing in

length for a while, then maintaining its length as the rearward dots

vanished and new dots of cottony white were added to the other end.

Higher and higher rose the aeroplanes above the white wake of exploding

shells, bearing eastward now, sheering widely, as a pair of soaring

hawks sweep swiftly into vaster circles as they mount into the dazzling

blue.

"The fort is using its sky-guns," remarked Warner.

They all took turns watching the fleecy clots of smoke appear, linger,

dissolve in mid-air. Long after the aeroplanes had disappeared in the

sky, the high-angle guns continued their distant, rattling fusillade.

"What do you think is happening out there?" asked the Countess. "You

have seen war, Jim. Have you an idea what the smoke and cannonade mean?

Is a German army coming?"

Warner said:

"They are shelling villages to the north of us--perhaps trenches, too.

I don't know what troops we have there.

"Probably their cavalry screen has come into contact with ours, and I

should say that we are retiring. But you can't tell yet."

"It's the _invasion_, then," said the Countess calmly.

"It's a raid, anyway."

"A raid on Ausone?"

"Probably. The railroad there is always important--much more so than

the Ausone Fort. I'm afraid that fort doesn't amount to very much as

fortifications are classed now."

The spectacle from the north terrace had become very disquieting. All

the horizon was now obscured by smoke, and its dirty shadow dulled the

distance and invaded the middle distance, hanging from west to east like

a sooty veil suspended across land and sky. There was, however, nothing

else to see, not a glimmer of flame, nothing stirring on the hill where,

unseen, the Ausone Fort crouched above the green valley of the

Recollette. But the deadened mutter of the cannonade continued unbroken

along the horizon, never ceasing now, not even when the light wind

changed.

Peggy's curiosity was satisfied; she had taken jealous possession of

Philippa, with a side glance at Warner out of brown eyes not entirely

devoid of malice, and the two were in the billiard room, which opened

from the northern terrace, for the purpose of Philippa's education in

the game of French billiards.

The Countess set her teacup aside and picked up her sewing.

"I don't intend to be driven out of my home," she remarked.

He lighted a cigarette and looked curiously into the north.

"Whether it's to be the wretched story of 1870 again or not," she went

on, "I shall not be frightened away from this house.

"This is my home. I came here a bride; my dear husband died under this

roof; all I care for in the world, all I hold most dear, most intimate,

is here, Jim. I shall not go."

He said gravely:

"I hope the necessity may never arise, Ethra."

"It will not. Are the Germans really barbarians? What object could they

have in injuring this old house? What good would it do them or their

country to disturb us here? If they come, we can't defend ourselves.

What is there for us to do except to submit? But I shall not go away and

leave this place to the mercies of their filthy soldiery."

Warner said nothing. There were many contingencies overlooked by this

determined lady--circumstances which might mean ruin to the house--if,

for instance, a retreating army chose to defend the Chateau. But he

remained silent, not caring to trouble her with the possibilities of

eventualities.

"I had rather you stayed, if you don't mind, Jim," she said, sewing away

serenely.

"Certainly."

The steady thud of the cannonade had now assumed a more substantial

rumbling sound.

Now and then separate shocks were audible, as though great pieces,

occasionally, were discharged singly, dominating the duller monotone of

lesser caliber.

He kept his eyes pretty constantly on the horizon line of smoke,

evidently expectant of some new development, now and then fancying that

it had become visible, as the calm sky became suffused with the delicate

pastel hues of early evening, and the first bat zigzagged among the

potted orange trees on the terrace.

And presently, in the early dusk, it became visible--first merely as a

dull tint reddening the distant smoke, then as a faint, ruddy line of

light, shifting, twinkling, sinking, flaring palely, then more redly as

the summer dusk deepened and possessed the silent world around them.

From northwest to southeast ran the flicker of the guns, with now and

then a wider flare and a deeper accent dominating the measured monotone.

Five fires were burning, also: two from hamlets or nearer groups of

buildings belonging to some big farm; the other three conflagrations

were farther distant, and much greater, as though three considerable

villages and their environs were in flames.

Philippa and Peggy came to the long, open windows from moment to moment,

standing there, cue in hand, to look out at the reddening sky.

It was still not too dusky to see fairly well, and the lamps had not yet

been lighted in the house, excepting the luster over the billiard table,

when a footman appeared on the terrace, dignified, correct, unruffled:

"The driveway and circle, Madame la Comtesse, are full of cavalry.

Their officers are dismounting; the troopers have gone into our stables

and garage."

The Countess rose quietly, and Warner stood up in silence.

"What cavalry is it?"

"Ours, Madame. They have taken out the three automobiles and all the

horses."

"Thank you." And, to Warner: "Would you mind coming with me, Jim?"

They entered the billiard room and traversed the house to the southern

terrace.

Drive and circle were swarming with the pale blue dolmans of hussars

moving in and out of the fan-shaped glare of electric torches, some

mounted, their lances held perpendicularly in the stirrup boots, others

afoot, leading up horses from the Chateau stables, pushing the three

automobiles along the garage drive, dragging vehicles of every

description by hand--hay wagons, farm wagons, long unused and

old-fashioned family carriages with the De Moidrey crest on their

panels.

Several officers in turquoise and silver, standing on the terrace,

surveyed the proceedings below, one of them turning the brilliant light

of his breast torch upon one spot after another and scarcely raising his

voice as he directed operations.

There was very little noise, no confusion; everybody seemed to know what

was to be done.

As the Countess de Moidrey and Warner came out upon the terrace, the

officers heard them, turned, saluted, and one of them, a slim, handsome

youth most beautifully molded into his uniform, came forward, crimson

cap in hand, bowing with a grace indescribable.

"Madame de Moidrey," he said, "we very deeply regret the military

necessity which temporarily deprives you of your cars and horses, but

the Government requires us to ask them of you and to offer you a

receipt----"

"The Government is welcome, Monsieur," she said earnestly. "If the

Government will accept what I have to offer as a gift, it will honor me

sufficiently without offering any receipt or promise of

indemnification."

"Countess," said the youthful soldier, bowing, "it is the answer any

soldier of France might expect from one who bears the name of De

Moidrey. Nevertheless, Madame, I am required to leave in your

possession a receipt for what you so graciously permit me to

requisition.... Permit me, Madame----" He drew from his dispatch pouch

the papers, already filled in, signed and stamped, and presented them

with a bow.

And, smilingly, Madame de Moidrey tore them across, again and again, and

dropped the fragments upon the terrace.

"Monsieur," she said, "may I not offer you the hospitality of the

house--some little refreshment for you and for your men?"

"Madame, we are overwhelmed, but our orders permit us no time."

Warner said quietly:

"If you could spare a moment, Captain, there is something I should like

you to see from the north terrace." And to the Countess: "May I take

him? I think he ought to see what we have seen."

Madame de Moidrey said:

"By all means, Jim."

And the two young men went swiftly through the house and out on the

north terrace.

"Ha!" exclaimed the officer, as the rumble of the cannonade struck his

ears, and he looked out on the dark circle of the horizon, all sparkling

and lighted up with the ruddy flicker and flare of the guns.

"A raid?" asked Warner quietly.

"I don't know. Villages are afire yonder. Have you seen anything that

might be of importance to us, Monsieur?"

"Two aeroplanes. The Ausone fort fired at them with sky-guns. They

went east."

"Biplanes?"

"Monoplanes, I think. I am not sure."

"Square-tipped ailerons? Could you see?"

"They were shaped exactly like kestrels."

"Ah! Taubes! Many thanks, Monsieur." He stared out across the

darkness. "Yes, it's warming up out there. Well, sir, I must go. And

thank you again for your kindness----" He fumbled in his dolman,

produced his cardcase. "May I be permitted to present my cards to

Madame de Moidrey? Thank you--if you would be so amiable----"

They retraced their steps through the house, encountering Peggy Brooks

in the hallway, who received a most ceremonious bow from the youthful

hussar, and who acknowledged it with an enchanting inclination of her

pretty head.

Within a few feet of the front terrace, the young officer suddenly

halted.

"Monsieur," he said, very red, "it would seem, perhaps, more courteous

for me to leave my cards for all the ladies of the household. Would it

not--under such unusual and unfortunate circumstances as those of this

evening?"

Warner looked at him gravely; he was very young, very ceremonious, very

much flushed. Was it possible that Peggy Brooks had bowled over this

young gentleman with her first smile?

"I think," said Warner, very seriously, "that it might be considered

obligatory for an officer who takes away all the horses and motor cars

to leave his card for every lady in the family. There are," he added,

"three."

Afterward, when the officer had taken his leave, and his escort of

hussars had trotted away with the horses, wagons, and automobiles,

Warner, much amused, related to the Countess the incident of the cards;

and he distributed them at dinner, reading the name engraved on his own

with some curiosity.

"Well, Peggy," he said, "you did murderous work with your smile this

evening."