Once one of the men begged for water—water to drink and its coolness on his head. They were passing a trickling stream that looked clear and refreshing.

"Let me get out a moment and get him some," begged Ruth.

"Can't do it. Against orders. We're commanded not to taste water from any stream, spring, or well in this sector—let alone give it to the wounded. Nobody knows when the water is poisoned."

"But the Germans have been gone from this district so long now!" she cried.

"They may have their spies here. In fact," grumbled Holdness, "we are sure they do have friends in the sector."

"Oh!"

"You know that Devil Corner Charlie Bragg drove you past the other night? The shells have torn that all to pieces. We have to go fully two miles around by another road to get to Clair. We don't pass Mother Gervaise's place any more."

Ruth looked at him sadly but questioningly.

"Do you believe that story they tell about one of our young officers having gone over to the enemy?" she asked.

Holdness flushed vividly. "I didn't know him. I've got no opinion on the matter, Miss Fielding," he said. "But somebody has mapped out the whole sector for the Huns—and it has cost lives, and ammunition. You can't blame folks for being suspicious."

The answer quenched her conversation. Ruth scarcely spoke again during the remainder of the journey.

They welcomed her in most friendly fashion at the Clair Hospital. But the first thing she did after depositing her bag in her cell was to go to the telegraph office and put before the military censor the following message addressed to the prefect of police at Lyse,

"Will you please communicate with M. Lafrane. I have something of importance to tell him."

She signed her name and occupation in full to this, and was finally assured that it would be sent. M. Lafrane was of the secret police, and Ruth Fielding had been in communication with him on a previous occasion.

Several days passed with no reply from her communication to the police. Nor did any news reach her from the field hospital where she had been engaged, nor from her friends at the front. Indeed, those working near the battle lines really know less of what is being done in this war than civilians in America, for instance.

Almost every night the guns thundered, and it was reported that the Americans were making sorties into the German lines and bearing back both prisoners and plunder. But just what was being accomplished Ruth Fielding had no means of knowing.

Not having seen or heard from Henriette Dupay since her return, early in the following week Ruth started out to walk briskly to the Dupay farm one afternoon.

Of late the aeroplanes had become very numerous over this sector. They were, for the most part, American machines. But this afternoon she chanced to see one of the French Nieuports at close quarters.

These are the scouting, or battle planes, and carry but two men and a machine gun. She heard the motor some moments before seeing the aeroplane rise over the tree tops. She knew it must have leaped from a large field on this side of the Dupay farm and not far below the gateway of the Chateau Marchand.

Ruth stopped to gaze upward at the soaring airplane. Her figure stood out plainly in the country road and the two men aboard the Nieuport must have immediately spied her.

The machine dipped and scaled downward until she could have thrown a stone upward and hit it. One of the men—masked and helmeted as the flying men always are—leaned from his seat, and she saw him looking down upon her through the tangle of stay-wires.

Then he dropped a small white object that fell like a plummet at her feet!

"What in the world can that be?" murmured the girl to herself.

For a breath she was frightened. Although the aeroplane carried the French insignia it might be an enemy machine. She, too, was obsessed with the fear of spies!

But the object that fell was not an explosive bomb. It was a weighted ball of oiled silk. As the machine soared again and rapidly rose to the upper air levels, the girl picked up the strange object and burst it open.

The lead pellets that weighted the globe were scattered on the ground. Within there was nothing else but a strip of heavy document paper. On this was traced in a handwriting she knew well, this unsigned message:

"Don't believe everything you hear."

It was Tom Cameron's handwriting—and Ruth knew that the message was meant for her eye and her eye only!



CHAPTER XII

AUNT ABELARD

Of course nothing just like this ever happened save in a fairy story—or in real life. The paper without address, but meant only for Ruth Fielding, had fallen from the aeroplane. She had seen it fall at her feet and could not be mistaken.

Who the two men in the French Nieuport were she could not know. Masked and hooded as they were, she could distinguish the features of neither the pilot nor the man who had dropped the paper bomb. But—she was sure of this—they were somehow in communication with Tom Cameron.

And Tom Cameron was supposed to have gone across the lines to the Germans, or—as Ruth believed—had been captured by them. Yet, if he was a captive, how had he been able to send her this message?

Again, how did he know she was worried about him? He must have reason to suspect that a story was being circulated regarding his unfaithfulness.

Who were those two flying men? Were they German spies? Had Tom been a prisoner in the hands of the Huns, would spies have brought this word from him to her?

And how—and how—and how——?

Her queries and surmises were utterly unanswerable. She turned the bit of paper over and over in her fingers. She could not be mistaken about Tom's handwriting. He had penciled those words.

It was true, any friend of Tom's who knew his handwriting and might have picked up the loaded paper bomb, would have considered the written line a personal message.

"Don't believe everything you hear."

But, then, what friends had Tom in this sector of the battle front save his military associates and Ruth Fielding? The girl never for one moment considered that the written line might have been meant for anybody but herself.

And she did with it the very wisest thing she could have done. She tore the paper into the tiniest of bits, and, as she continued her walk to the Dupay farm, she dribbled the scraps along the grassy road.

She began to have a faint and misty idea of what it all meant—Tom's disappearance, the general belief among his comrades that he was a traitor, and this communication which had reached her hands in seemingly so wonderful a manner.

Tom Cameron had been selected for some dangerous and secret mission. It might have occasioned his entrance through the enemy's lines. He was on secret service beyond the great bombarding German guns!

If this was so he was in extreme peril! But he was doing his duty!

Ruth's heart throbbed to the thought—to both thoughts! His dangerous work was not done yet. But it was very evident that he had means of knowing what went on upon this side of the line of battle.

The men recently flying over her head in the French air machine must be comrades of Tom's in the secret mission which had carried that young fellow into the enemy's country. The message she had received might be only one of several the flying men had dropped about Clair, and at the request of Tom Cameron, the latter hoping that at least one of them would reach Ruth's hands.

The girl knew that American and French flying men often carried communications addressed to the German people into Germany, and dropped them in similar "bombs." One of the President's addresses had been circulated through a part of Germany and Austria by this means.

She had a feeling, too, that the man who had thrown the message to her knew her. But Ruth could not imagine who he was. She might have believed it to be Tom Cameron himself; only she knew very well that Tom had not joined the air service.

The incident, however, heartened her. Whatever Tom was doing—no matter how perilous his situation—he had thought of her. She had an idea that the message had been written within a few hours.

She went on more cheerfully toward the Dupay farm. She arrived amidst a clamor of children and fowls, to find the adult members of the family gathered in the big living-room of the farmhouse instead of occupied, as usual, about the indoor and outdoor work. For the Dupays were no sluggards.

"Oh, Mademoiselle Ruth!" cried Henriette, and ran to meet her. The French girl's plump cheeks were tear-streaked and Ruth instantly saw that not only the girl but the whole family was much disturbed.

"What has happened?" the American girl asked.

In these days of war almost any imaginable thing might happen.

"It is poor old Aunt Abelard!" Henriette exclaimed in her own tongue. "She must remove from her old home at Nacon."

Ruth knew that the place was a little village (and villages can be small, indeed, in France) between Clair and the field hospital where she had herself been for a week, but on another road than that by which she had traveled.

"It is too near the battle line," she said to Henriette. "Don't you think she should have moved long ago?"

"But the Germans left it intact," Henriette declared. "She is very comfortable there. She does not wish to leave. Oh, Mademoiselle Ruth! could you not speak to some of your gr-r-reat, gr-r-reat, brave American officers and have it stopped?"

"Have what stopped?" cried Ruth in amazement.

"Aunt Abelard's removal."

"Are the Americans making her leave her home?"

"It is so!" Henriette declared.

"It is undoubtedly necessary then," returned Ruth gently.

"It is not understood. If she could remain there throughout the German invasion, and was undisturbed by our own army, why should these Americans plague her?"

Henriette spoke with some heat, and Ruth saw that her mother and the grandmother were listening. Their faces did not express their usual cheerful welcome with which Ruth had become familiar. Aunt Abelard's trouble made a difference in their feeling toward the Americans, that was plain.

Nor was this to be wondered at. The French farmer is as deeply rooted in his soil as the great trees of the French forests. That is why their treatment by the German invader and the ruin of their farms have been so great a cross for them to shoulder.

Ruth learned that Aunt Abelard—an aunt of Farmer Dupay, and a widow—had lived upon her little place since her marriage over half a century before. Without her little garden and her small fields, and her cow and pig and chickens, she would scarcely know how to live. And to be uprooted and carried to some other place! It was unthinkable!

"It is fierce!" said Henriette in good American, having learned that much from Charlie Bragg.

"I am sure there must be good reason for it," Ruth said. "I will inquire. If there is any possibility of her remaining without being in danger——"

"What danger?" demanded Madame Dupay, clicking her tongue. "Do these countrymen of yours intend to let the Boches overrun our country again? Our poilus drove them back and kept them back."

Ruth saw she could say nothing to appease the rising wrath of the family. She was rather sorry she had chanced to come upon this day of ill-tidings.

"Of course she will come here?" she asked Henriette.

"Where else can she go?"

"Will your father go after her in the automobile?"

"What?" gasped Henriette. "That is of the devil's concoction, so thinks poor Aunt Abelard. She will not ride in it. And my father is busy. Let the Yankees bring her—and her goods—if they desire to remove her from her own abode."

Ruth could say nothing to soothe either her little friend nor the other members of the family. They could not understand why Aunt Abelard must be removed from her place; nor did Ruth understand.

She was convinced, however, that there must be something of importance afoot in this sector, and that Aunt Abelard's removal from her little cottage was a necessity. The American troops in France were not deliberately making enemies among the farming people.

Henriette walked for some distance toward the hospital when Ruth went back; but the French girl was gloomy and had little to say to her American friend.

When Ruth reached the hospital and was ascending to her cell at the back, the matron came hurrying through the corridor to meet her. She was plainly excited.

"Mademoiselle Fielding!" she cried. "You have a visitor. In the office. Go to him at once, my dear. It is Monsieur Lafrane."



CHAPTER XIII

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING

Monsieur Lafrane Ruth could count as one of her friends. Not many months before she had enabled the secret service man to solve a criminal problem and arrest several of the criminals engaged in a conspiracy against the Red Cross.

She had not been sure that he would so quickly respond to her telegram to the elderly prefect of police at Lyse, who was likewise her friend and respectful admirer.

This secret agent was a lean man of dark complexion. His manner was cordial when he rose to greet her. She knew that he was a very busy man and that he had responded personally to her appeal because he took a deeper interest in her than in most people aside from those whose acts it was his duty to investigate.

They were alone in the small office of the hospital. He said crisply and in excellent English:

"Mademoiselle has need of me?"

"I have something to tell you, Monsieur—something that I think may be of importance. Yet, as we Americans say, I may be merely stirring up a mare's nest."

"Ah, I understand the reference," he said, smiling. "Let me be the judge of the value of what you tell me, Mademoiselle. Proceed."

Swiftly she told him of her visit to the field hospital so much nearer the battle line than this quiet institution at Clair, and, in addition, told him of Nicko, the chocolate peddler, and his dual appearance.

"There are two of the men. They dress exactly alike. I was suspicious of the peddler the very first time I saw him. No Frenchman—not even a French soldier—bows as I saw him bow."

"Ha!" ejaculated the secret agent.

"He bows from the hips—the bow of a German military man. I—I have seen them bow before," Ruth hesitated, remembering Major Henri Marchand. "You understand?"

"But, yes, Mademoiselle," said the Frenchman, his eyes flashing.

"Then," she went on, "I saw the man—or supposedly the same man—a second time. He bowed very differently—just as an ordinary humble French peasant might bow."

"Could it not be that he forgot the second time you saw him?" queried M. Lafrane.

"I doubt it. There is something quite distinct in the air of the two men. But I understand that whichever comes to the hospital with the basket of sweets always has a word with the German officer in Hut H, Cot Twenty-four. You can easily find out about him."

"True," murmured the secret agent eagerly.

Then she told him of her walk in the gloaming and what she had seen in the garden of the peasant's cot—the two men dressed exactly alike. One must be the half-foolish Nicko; the other must be the spy.

M. Lafrane nodded eagerly again, pursing his lips.

"Mademoiselle," he said quietly, "I will ask the good madame if you may be relieved for the day. I have a car outside—a swift car. Can you show me that cottage—Nicko's dwelling? I will bring you back immediately."

"Of a surety," she told him in his own tongue, as he had spoken. "Wait. I will get my hat and coat. I may not know the nearest way to the place. But——"

"I am familiar with this territory," he said dryly. "We can strike it, I have no doubt, Mademoiselle. But I need you to verify the place and—perhaps—to identify the man."

"Not the spy?" she gasped.

"Nicko, the peddler."

"I see. I will be with you in the courtyard at once, Monsieur."

When she came out he was ready to step into a two-seated roadster, hung low and painted a battleship gray. A man in uniform on the front seat drove. Ruth got in, was followed by the secret agent, and they started.

She had much more in her heart and mind; but she doubted the advisability of telling M. Lafrane.

There was what she suspected about Major Henri Marchand. Could she turn suspicion toward the son of her good friend, the countess? And his brother who, it was said, had run away?

Ruth felt that she had already told much that might cause the major trouble. She did not know. She only suspected.

As for Tom Cameron's trouble—and the mystery surrounding him—she did not feel that she could speak to the secret agent about that. Tom's affairs could have nothing to do with the work of this French criminal investigator. No. She hugged to her heart all her anxiety regarding Tom.

As soon as they left the hospital courtyard Ruth found that she was traveling with a chauffeur beside whom Charlie Bragg's reckless driving was tame indeed. Besides, Charlie's lame car could not arrive at such speed as this racing type of automobile was capable of.

By looking over the back of the front seat she obtained a glimpse of the speedometer, and saw the indicator traveling from sixty to seventy. After that she did not wish to look again. She did not want to know if they traveled faster.

The road over which they went was strange to Ruth Fielding. It was by a much shorter way Charlie Bragg had taken her to the field hospital, and over which she had returned.

They began before long to meet farmers' wagons, piled high with household goods, on which sat the strange, sad-eyed children of the war zone, or decrepit old people, often surrounded by their fowls. For even the poorest and most destitute of the French peasants manage to have "poulets."

The processions of moving people amazed Ruth. She remembered what the Dupays had said about Aunt Abelard, and she began to see that there was a general exodus being forced from the country nearer the front in this sector.

It was a fact that the people did not look happy. Now and then one of the American military police walked beside a wagon, as though he had been sent on with the movers to make sure that they kept moving.

The girl asked M. Lafrane nothing about this exodus. Perhaps he knew no more the reason for it than Ruth did.

They came to a little dale between hills at last, and in this place stood a cottage and barns—a tiny homestead, but very neat, and one that had been unmarred by the enemy. There were even fruit trees standing.

There was a huge wagon before the door, and into it must go the household goods and the family as well—if there was a family. It seemed that the wagon had just arrived, and the American soldiers with it scarcely knew what to do in this case. There was nothing packed, ready for removal, and an old woman—the only person about the farmstead—was busy feeding her flock of chickens.

"You must come, vite, Tante," Ruth heard the corporal in charge of the squad say to the old woman. The automobile had stopped, for the road was too narrow for it to pass the wagon.

The old woman seemed to understand the American's mixture of English and French. She shook her head with emphasis.

"But I cannot leave my pullets," she said, aghast. "They will starve. You will go along, you Americans, and leave me alone."

"You must come; Tante," repeated the corporal, inflexibly. "You should have prepared for this. You were warned in time." Then to his men: "Go in, boys, and bring out her goods. Careful, now. Don't mess anything up."

"You cannot take my things. Your cart is already full," shrilled the old woman. "And my pullets!"

The American soldiers entered the cottage. Between her anger at them and her fear for the safety of her chickens, the old woman was in a pitiful state, indeed. Ruth looked at M. Lafrane.

"Oh, can we not do anything for her?" she asked.

"Military law knows no change—the laws of the Medes and Persians," he said grimly. "She must go, of course——"

Suddenly he sat up more stiffly beside the American girl and his hand went to his cap in salute. He even rose, and, before Ruth looked around and spied the occasion for this, she knew it must foretell the approach of an officer of importance.

Coming along the road (he had been sheltered from her gaze before by the laden wagon) was a French officer in a very brilliant uniform. Ruth gasped aloud; she knew him at a glance.

It was Major Henri Marchand, in the full panoply of a dress uniform, although he was on foot. He acknowledged M. Lafrane's salute carelessly and did not see the girl at all. He walked directly into the yard surrounding the cottage. The corporal of the American squad was saying:

"I am sorry for you, ma mere. But we cannot wait now. You should have been ready for us. You have had forty-eight hours' notice."

The old countrywoman was quite enraged. She began to vilify the Americans most abominably. Ruth suddenly heard her say that the Abelards had been rooted here for generations. She refused to go for all the soldiers in the world!

Then she shrieked again as she saw the men bringing out her best bed. Major Marchand took a hand in the matter.

"Tante," he said quietly, "I am sorry for you. But these men are in the right. The high authorities have said you must go. All your neighbors are going. It is for la patrie. These are bitter times and we must all make sacrifices. Come, now, you must depart."

Ruth wondered at his quiet, yet forceful, manner. The corporal stood back, thankful to have the disagreeable duty taken out of his hands. And the American girl wondered, too, at the respect Monsieur Lafrane had shown this French officer. Had he saluted the uniform, or was Major Marchand a very important personage? Her brain was in a whirl of doubt.



CHAPTER XIV

MORE SACRIFICES THAN ONE

Monsieur Lafrane had stepped out of the automobile, although the wagon had now been backed so that the car could have easily passed. Its engine was still throbbing.

Ruth Fielding was giving her full attention to the little scene at the hencoop.

The tall, handsome major in his beautiful uniform made little impression upon the old woman. She backed away from him, pressing closer to the lathe coop.

"No, no! I will not come. My pullets—they will starve," she reiterated endlessly.

"But the Germans may be coming," the major said patiently. "They will kill your pullets and eat them."

"They did not do so before when they came," she shrieked. "I do not believe they are coming. These wicked Americans want my pullets. That is what it is! I will not!"

"Tante——" the major interposed gently.

"I will not, I tell you!" she interrupted.

She had backed up against the gate of the coop and had been fiddling behind her at its fastenings. Now, quick as a wink, she snatched the gate open and, with wonderful celerity for one of her age, plunged into the hencoop and slammed to the door.

There was a tumultuous flapping and cackling of the bewildered poultry, and the air inside the coop was immediately filled with dust and feathers. Then the chaos subsided and the old woman looked out defiantly at the major and at the half-amused, half-pitying soldier boys.

The major's shrug was characteristic. He turned to look at the spectators, and Ruth saw that his eyes were moist. His pity for the unfortunate old woman and his kindness to her had its effect upon the American girl. She wondered what manner of man, after all, this Frenchman could be.

Major Marchand said something in a low voice to the American corporal. The latter gave an order to his men. They surrounded the coop, and suddenly, at the word, the corners were torn apart and the walls of the enclosure thrown down.

Aunt Abelard shrieked—and so did the pullets. Many of the latter were caught on the wing by the soldiers. The major put his arm about the old woman's shoulders. She was shrieking insanely, but he led her into the house and there remained while most of the pullets were decapitated swiftly and thrown aside, to be later carried to the field kitchens.

But when the tearful old woman was brought out with the last of her possessions and bundled into the rear of the now loaded wagon, the American corporal came with a pair of the nicest pullets, their legs tied together, and placed them in the old woman's lap along with the bird-cage one of the boys lifted up to her.

Ruth, watching closely, saw Major Marchand draw the corporal aside and place a couple of twenty-franc notes in his hand, nodding toward the old woman. It was to recompense her for the pullets, over whose untimely fate she was still moaning.

The mystery of the major—or his character and what and who he really was—disturbed Ruth. She was excited. Should she tell Monsieur Lafrane of her suspicion that this officer of the French army was the man whom she thought was Nicko's double?

For it was Major Henri Marchand Ruth believed she had seen enter Nicko's garden and talk with him the evening before she left the field hospital to return to Clair.

The major walked quietly away without even seeing Ruth. The chauffeur of their car, after a nod from Lafrane, started again. They passed the wagon, which was already trundling down the road.

This cot was the last one at which Ruth saw anybody during that ride. For when they reached the hut of Nicko, the chocolate peddler, his place was likewise deserted. There were no neighboring houses.

Lafrane got out at Nicko's cottage and searched the premises. His face was grave when he came back to the car and told the chauffeur to hurry on to the hospital.

Here Ruth was amazed to see many American soldiers at work. They were piling sandbags about the various huts and over their roofs. She understood now why the people were being entirely cleared out of this sector. A great bombardment was expected.

Ruth did not get out of the car. M. Lafrane ran in, and, through the open gateway, she saw that he entered Hut H. He had gone to take a look at the occupant of Cot 24—the German officer.

He was occupied within some time and when he appeared at the door of the hut Dr. Monteith was with him. The two stood talking for a while before the secret agent returned to the gate. He got into the car again with just a word to his chauffeur.

"Mademoiselle," said M. Lafrane, his face serious, indeed, "there are many disappointments in life, as well as many sacrifices. We saw the old woman torn from her home—and from her pullets—just now. The pattern of life is complex for us all.

"I have come from Paris because you called me." Ruth started and looked at him closely. "I hoped that you might have something of moment to tell me. I shall always trust in your good sense."

Ruth felt a sinking of the heart.

"But, Monsieur! have I brought you here for nothing? I warned you it might be a mare's nest."

"Non, non!" he replied eagerly. "It is not your fault. I believe you did hand me a thread of a clue that might—under more fortunate circumstances—have led to the disclosure of something momentous."

"But that in reality leads nowhere, Monsieur. Is that what you mean?"

"Mademoiselle, Fate tricks us! This Nicko is one of those thrust out of this sector in haste because of military reasons. And the German Hauptman, who lay so long ill in that Hut H—well, Mademoiselle, he has died!"

Ruth was amazed, and for a time dumb. Should she bring Major Henri Marchand into the matter? The secret agent knew him and respected him. Ruth shrank from putting suspicion upon a possibly innocent person.

And yet, his height, his manner of bowing, an indefinite air about him, had convinced Ruth that Nicko's double was Henri Marchand. Who else could it be? Could there be some person who so resembled the countess' younger son?

The thought roweled her mind. There was something in it to be considered. Who else could the mysterious man be?

And then, of a sudden, it flashed into Ruth's mind. The older son of the Countess Marchand was probably in appearance like his brother. Count Allaire Marchand! And where was Count Allaire now?

The story was that the young count had disappeared from Paris. He was believed to be in the pay of the Germans. He, like Henri, had been educated in the Prussian military schools. No matter what the secret agents thought of the countess the loyalty of her sons was questioned by the peasants living about the chateau.

A determination grew in Ruth Fielding's mind. She would go to the chateau and see if there was a picture of Count Allaire in his old home. She wished to determine if he looked like Major Henri Marchand.

Meanwhile they rode swiftly over another road toward Clair. It was the road beside which the little inn of Mother Gervaise was situated.

Even that had been stripped of the widow's possessions and she was gone. Like every other cot in all this sector, and back for ten miles from the battle front, the place was deserted.



CHAPTER XV

BUBU

Ruth arrived at Clair again late in the evening and bade Monsieur Lafrane good-night at the hospital entrance. On the following day the girl of the Red Mill was permitted to go to the Chateau Marchand to call.

The secret agent had made it plain to Ruth that he held her in no fault for the seeming fiasco of their journey to the field hospital and its vicinity. The sudden death of the German officer in Hut H had been an act beyond human control. The disappearance of Nicko, the chocolate peddler, was an act of the military authorities.

On her own part Ruth was so confused regarding Major Henri Marchand that she dared not mention his name to Monsieur Lafrane. Matters must take their natural course—for a time, at least.

Nevertheless, the American girl had a particular object in mind when she set forth briskly for the chateau on this afternoon. She was free until bedtime, and during this contemplated call on the countess she was determined to learn what the young Count Marchand looked like.

On the edge of the town she spied an automobile approaching, and soon recognized Henriette Dupay behind the windshield. Ruth stopped and waved her hand. For a moment she thought the French girl was disinclined to stop at all.

However, Ruth did not propose to give Henriette an opportunity to show any unfriendliness. She liked the girl and she understood that the whole matter would be smoothed over in time. The reason for Aunt Abelard's uprooting would become apparent to the French people, and their momentary feeling against the Americans would change.

Henriette's face was quite flushed, however, when she stopped her car and returned briefly Ruth's greeting.

"How is Aunt Abelard?" the latter asked. She told Henriette how she had chanced to be present when the old woman was forced to leave her homestead.

"Ah, Mademoiselle, she is heart-broken!" declared Henriette, quite eschewing English now. "Yes, heart-broken! She arrived at our house with only two pullets. All the others were stolen by the Americans," and the girl tossed her head angrily.

"How about the forty francs she was given in lieu of the pullets?" Ruth asked, laughing. "Did she tell you about that?"

"But yes," returned the French girl, rather taken aback. "But that was given to her by Major Henri Marchand. He is so good!"

"True. But it is probable that she will make application to the American officers and will be reimbursed a second time," Ruth said dryly. "As far as the pullets go, Henriette, I believe they are a small loss to Aunt Abelard."

"But her house! Her home!" ejaculated the French girl.

"Of what use would that be to her had she remained and there should come the bombardment that everybody says is coming? The German shells may tear her cottage to bits."

Henriette shrugged her truly French shoulders. She evidently did not believe in the threatened bombardment. The guns of the front had been quiet for two days.

So she nodded to Ruth rather coldly and drove on into town. But Ruth went away smiling. She was quite convinced that Henriette and her family would soon find out their mistake, and then they would be on friendly terms with her again. The Latin nature is easily offended; but it is usually just.

She saw nobody else in her walk to the chateau. There she had to wait for some minutes at the gate for Dolge to answer her summons.

"The Mademoiselle Fielding," he said, bowing. "I am sure the countess will approve my asking you in at once. She is fond of you, Mademoiselle."

"I am glad, Dolge. I like to have people approve of me," smiled Ruth.

"Ah, yes, Mademoiselle. And the major—our Henri, our cadet! I am sure he approves of you, Mademoiselle."

The American girl flushed warmly, but managed to hide her disturbed countenance from the old serving man.

"He is not at home, is he, Dolge?" she quietly asked.

"But, no, Mademoiselle. He went hurriedly yesterday. And would you believe it?"

"Believe what?"

"He went in one of those flying machines. Oui! Oui! Right up into the sky, Mademoiselle," went on the old man excitedly. "Yonder he mounted it beyond the gates. Ah, these times! It is so that soon one will take an aeroplane as one takes a taxicab in the city. Is it not?"

Ruth listened and marveled. Major Marchand flying into the air from the chateau here on yesterday, when it was only yesterday that she met him, in his brave uniform, taking pity on a poor old woman who was driven out of the battle zone?

Suddenly her mind caught the point. The cogs slipped into juxtaposition, as it were, and everything unrolled in its proper sequence before her.

It was on yesterday, as she went toward the Dupay farm, that she had seen the rising aeroplane, from which had been dropped the paper bomb, wherein Ruth had found the message from Tom Cameron. It was from just beyond the gates that Dolge said the machine rose that had borne away Major Marchand from the chateau.

"The time, Dolge?" she demanded, stopping short in the walk and looking at the surprised old servant. "The time that Major Henri flew away?"

"Oh, la! It was around one of the clock. Not later."

That was the hour! Ruth was confident she was making no mistake now. It was either the major, or the pilot of the plane, that had dropped the message to her. Two hours and a half later she had seen the major at the cot of Aunt Abelard. He might easily have flown clear beyond the German lines and back again by that time. And he might easily have worn his major's uniform beneath his other garments.

But Tom's message. That was the point that puzzled her. If dropped by Major Marchand, how had he obtained it? What did the French officer, whose loyalty she doubted, have to do with Tom Cameron, whose loyalty she never for a moment doubted?

Ruth went on ahead of the wondering Dolge, vastly troubled. At every turn she was meeting incidents or surprising discoveries that entangled her mind more and more deeply in a web of doubt and mystery.

Where was Tom? Where did the major fly to? Where was he coming from when she had seen him walking down that country road where Aunt Abelard was having her unfortunate argument with the American soldiers?

The twists and turns of this mystery were enough to drive the girl distracted. And each incident which rose seemed to be dovetailed to some other part of the mystery.

Now she was suddenly sorry that she had not opened her heart entirely to Monsieur Lafrane. She wished she had told him about Tom Cameron, and the fears she felt for him, and what was said about him by his comrades. He might at least have been able to advise her.

She came to the chateau, therefore, in a most uncertain frame of mind. She was really in no mood for a social call.

But there was the countess walking on the paved court before the main door of the chateau. It was a fine day, and she walked up and down, with a shawl about her shoulders, humming a cheerful little song.

"Dear Mademoiselle Ruth!" she said, giving the girl her hands—soft and white, with a network of blue veins on their backs. "I am charmed. If it were not for you and our little Hetty I should scarcely feel I had a social life at all."

She spoke to Dolge as he hobbled away.

"Tell them to make tea," she said.

"Yes, Madame la Countess," he mumbled.

She took the arm of the strong young girl and walked with her up and down the portico.

"Henri will be disappointed in not seeing you, Mademoiselle. He went yesterday—called back to his duties."

"And by aeroplane, they tell me," answered the girl.

"Think!" exclaimed the countess, shrugging her shoulders. "A few months ago the thought of one of my boys mounting into the air would have kept me awake all of the night. And I slept like a child!"

"We grow used to almost everything, do we not?" Ruth said.

"War changes our outlook on life. Of course, I am not assured that he safely landed yesterday——"

"I can assure you of that, Madame, myself," said Ruth, without thinking far ahead when she said it.

"You, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes. I saw him—on the ground. He was all right," the girl added, dryly.

"You saw him after he left here!" exclaimed the countess. "I do not understand."

The girl saw she would have to go into particulars. But she did not tell the countess she had taken her trip to the field hospital with the secret agent, M. Lafrane.

"Dear me! That was so like him," the countess observed when she had heard the story of Aunt Abelard and her pullets. "His brother, too——"

"Is Count Allaire like his brother?" Ruth asked quietly.

"Yes. In many ways."

"I have never seen a picture of the count, have I?" the American girl pursued.

"But, yes! You have but to look at Henri," laughed the countess. "A little older. Perhaps a little more serious of expression. But the same tall, slim, graceful figure, both. Pardon my pride in my sons, Mademoiselle. They are my all now. And they are both like me, I believe," she added softly.

Ruth looked at her with luminous eyes.

"Like you in every way, Madame? Given so entirely to the service of their country?"

"But yes! Too recklessly patriotic, I fear," said the countess. Then, with a start, she exclaimed: "What is this? Do my eyes deceive me? Is it that wicked Bubu, running wild and free again?"

Ruth turned quickly. Crossing the wide lawns she saw the greyhound pass swiftly. He was without his blanket, and it seemed to Ruth as though the barrel of his body was much lighter of color than his chest and legs. Like a flash he was behind the chateau.

"Ma foi!" gasped the countess. "What is—— Something——"

She started to follow the dog. As she still clung to Ruth's arm the girl must perforce go with her. Through Ruth's mind was swirling a multitude of suspicious thoughts.



CHAPTER XVI

THE HOLLOW TOOTH

Bubu had been running at large—and in the daytime. He had come from the north. Ruth believed the dog had crossed the lines and just now had arrived at the chateau after his long and perilous journey.

Yet for a greyhound the fifteen or twenty kilometers between the chateau and the battle front was a mere nothing. At the rate the girl had seen the "werwolf" flying over the fields, he must have covered that distance faster than an automobile. And, too, he would take a route much more direct.

The countess seemed to have forgotten Ruth's presence; but the girl could not well draw her arm away and remain behind. Besides, she was desperately eager to know what would be done to Bubu, or with him, now that he had returned to the chateau. It was not unwillingly that the girl accompanied the countess.

It was some distance around the great building to the rear. They came upon the excited Dolge and the big dog, the latter lapping water out of a pan near the well house.

"Non! non!" cried the countess warningly. "Not that, Dolge. He must not be allowed too much cold water after his so-exciting run. It is not good for him."

The gardener stooped to take the pan away, and the greyhound growled. "Oh, la, la!" mumbled Dolge. "Name of a mouse! Would you butcher me, you of bloody mind?"

Ruth noticed that the barrel of the greyhound was almost white, which assisted in giving him that ghostly appearance at night.

The countess left Ruth and hurried forward. She did not stoop, but with her foot she straightway overturned the pan, sending the water out on the stones.

The dog looked up at her, wide-mouthed and with tongue hanging. But he did not offer to molest her. He only dropped his head again, and with his pink tongue sought to lap up the moisture from the stones.

"The collar, Dolge," commanded Madame la Countess.

The old man hobbled forward with the wide leather strap attached to the chain. The strap was decorated with big brass rivet heads. She buckled it around the neck of the panting dog. He lapped her hands.

"Ah, naughty one," she murmured, "would you run the fields like a wild dog? The blanket, Dolge. He may take cold."

Already the gardener was bringing the covering. They fastened it about Bubu, who finally shook himself and would have lain down had not the countess said sharply:

"Nay, nay! All is not yet finished, Bubu. Open thy mouth—so!"

She forced open the big dog's jaws. Rather, at a touch he allowed her to hold his dripping jaws apart.

"Dolge!" she demanded decisively, "can you see?"

"Oui, oui, Madame!" the old man chattered, shaking his head vigorously. "But not for me will he keep his jaws apart. I am not to be made into sausage-meat, I hope?"

The countess laughed at him. "Hold his mouth open, then. He would not desire to bite; but——"

Ruth, amazed, saw her white fingers fumble inside the dog's open maw. She pulled what seemed to be a white rubber cap from one of his grinders. Quickly and skilfully, with a fine knitting needle, the countess ripped from this rubber casing what the girl thought looked like a twist of oiled paper.

"All right, my good Dolge. You may let him go," she said, hiding the twist of paper in her palm. "Let him rest—poor fellow!"

She patted the greyhound with the sole of her slipper and the big dog yawned; then laid his head upon his paws. He was still panting, his sides heaving heavily. His legs and feet were bedaubed with mud.

"He has come a long way," the countess said coolly to Ruth. "Let us go in, Mademoiselle. It must be that our tea is ready."

She seemed to consider Ruth quite worthy of her confidence. The American girl knew that she was on the verge of an important discovery. It could not be that Bubu carried messages to Germany to give aid and comfort to the enemy! That suspicion was put to rest.

Bubu was being used to bring news from French spies across the battle lines. Otherwise the countess would never have allowed Ruth to discover this mystery of the "werwolf."

And how shrewd was the method followed in the use of the obedient dog! A hollow tooth, which would be overlooked even if the enemy shot and examined the animal.

Ruth wanted to ask a hundred questions; but she did not open her lips It might be that the countess supposed she was already aware of the use made of Bubu, and how he was used. The American girl had been brought to the chateau by Monsieur Lafrane, the agent of the French secret service bureau. And the countess knew, of course, his business.

As soon as they were in the library, where the tea things were laid, the countess proceeded to smooth out the bit of paper and examine it under a strong reading glass.

"Ah!" she cried, in a moment, her smooth cheeks flushing and her eyes brightening. "He is well! My dear boy!"

Her joy urged Ruth to question her, yet the girl hesitated. Her eyes, however, revealed to the countess her consuming curiosity.

"Mademoiselle!" exclaimed the old lady, "do you not know?"

"I—I don't know what you mean, Madame," stammered Ruth.

"It is from the count—my Allaire!"

"The message is from Count Marchand?" cried the girl, in utter amazement.

"But yes. He does not forget his old mother. When able, he always sends me word of cheer. Of course," she added, looking at the American girl curiously now, "there is something else upon the paper. His message to his mother is not a line. You understand, do you not? Monsieur Lafrane, of course——"

"Monsieur Lafrane has never told me a word," Ruth hastened to say. "I only suspected before to-day that Bubu carried messages back and forth across the lines."

"Ah, but you are to be trusted," the countess said cheerfully. "We do what the Anglais call—how is it?—'our little bit'? Bubu and I. He, too, is French!" and she said it proudly.

"And for years, Mademoiselle, we have established this couriership of Bubu's." She laughed. "Do you know what the farmers say of our so-good dog?"

Ruth nodded. "I have heard the story of the werwolf. And, really, Madame, the look of him as he runs at night would frighten anybody. He is ghostly."

The countess nodded. "In that's his safety—and has been since before the war. For, know you, Mademoiselle, all France was not asleep during those pre-war years when the hateful Hun was preparing and preparing.

"My husband, Mademoiselle Fielding, was a loyal and a far-sighted man. He did not play politics, and seek to foment trouble for the Republic as so many of our old and noble families did. Now, thank heaven, they are among our most faithful workers for la patrie.

"But, see you, Count Marchand owned a small estate near Merz, which is just over the border in Germany. Sometimes he would go there—sometimes to drink the waters, for there are springs of note, perhaps for the hunting, for there is a great forest near. He would always take Bubu with him.

"And so we taught Bubu to run back and forth between here and there. He carried messages around his neck in those times. Quite simple and plain messages, had he been caught at the frontier and examined.

"It was our Henri who resorted to the hollow tooth, and that since the war began. Bubu had one big tooth with a spot on it. Henri knew an American dentist in Paris. Ah, what cannot these Americans do!" and the countess laughed.

"We took Bubu to Paris and had the decayed spot drilled out. The tooth is sound at the root. The dentist made the hole as large as possible and then we moulded the rubber caps to close it. You see how the messages are sent?"

"Remarkable, Madame!" murmured Ruth. "But?"

"Ah? Who sends the messages from beyond the German lines? Now it is Count Allaire himself," she hastened to explain. "In disguise he went through the lines some weeks ago. The agent who was there came under suspicion of the Germans."

"And he lives at the castle over there in Germany—openly?" gasped Ruth.

"Nay, nay! It is no castle at best," and the countess laughed. "It is by no means as great a place as this. It was a modest little house and is now the comfortable quarters of a fat old Prussian general.

"But upon the estate is the cottage of a loyal Frenchman. He was gardener there in my husband's time. But as he bears a German name and his wife is German, they have never suspected him.

"It is with this old gardener, Brodart, my son communicates; and it is to him our good Bubu goes."

"But how can the dog get across No Man's Land?" cried Ruth. "I do not understand that at all!"

"There are bare and bleak places between the lines which we know nothing about," the countess said, shaking her head. "Not in all places are the two armies facing each other at a distance of a few hundred yards. There is the lake and swampland of Savoie, for instance. A great space divides the trenches there—all of two miles. Patrols are continually passing to and fro by night there, and from both sides. A man can easily get through, let alone a dog.

"Hush!" she added, lowering her voice. "Of course, I fear nobody here now. Poor Bessie—who was faithful to me for so many years—was contaminated by German gold. But she was half German at best. It was well the poor soul escaped as she did.

"However, my remaining servants I can trust. Yet there are things one does not speak of, Mademoiselle. You understand? There are many good men and true who take their lives in their hands and go back and forth between the enemy's lines and our own. They offer their lives upon the altar of their country's need."



CHAPTER XVII

THE WORST IS TOLD

"But, Major Marchand? What of him?" Ruth asked, deeply interested in what the countess had said.

"He, too, is in the secret work," responded the countess, smiling faintly. "My older son claimed the right of undertaking the more perilous task. Likewise he was the more familiar with the vicinity of our summer estate at Merz, having been there often with his father."

"But Major Henri goes back and forth, along the front, both by flying machine and in other ways?" Ruth asked. "I am sure I have seen him——"

She wanted to tell the countess how she had misjudged the major. But she hesitated. There was the matter of Nicko, the chocolate peddler, and the man who looked like him!

Could that disguised man have been the major? And if so, what was his interest in the German officer who had so suddenly died in the field hospital—the occupant of Cot 24, Hut H?

The girl's mind was still in a whirl. Had she called Lafrane to the front for nothing at all? Had she really been stirring up a mare's nest? She listened, however, to the countess' further observations:

"But yes, Mademoiselle, we all do what we may. My sons are hard at work for la patrie—and brave Bubu!" and she laughed. "Of course your American soldiers cannot be expected to take over the scouting on this front, not altogether, for they do not know the country as do we French. Yet some of your young men, Henri tells me, show marvelous adaptability in the work. Is it the Red Indian blood in them, think you, that makes them so proficient in scouting?" she added innocently.

But Ruth did not laugh. Indeed, she felt very serious, for she was thinking of Tom Cameron. Major Henri Marchand must know about Tom—where he was and what he was doing. That is, if it had been the major who had dropped the message from Tom at her feet the day before.

She could not discuss this matter with the countess. And yet the girl was so troubled regarding Tom's affairs that she felt equal to almost any reckless attempt to gain information about him.

Before the girl could decide to speak, however, there was a step upon the bare floor of the great entrance hall of the chateau. The ringing step came nearer, and the countess raised her head.

"Henri! Come in! Come in!" she cried as the door opened.

Major Marchand marched into the room breezily, still in the dress uniform Ruth had seen at Aunt Abelard's cottage.

"Ah, Mademoiselle!" he cried, having kissed his mother's hand and suddenly beholding the girl who had shyly retired to the other side of the hearth. "May I greet you?"

He came around the tea table and took her hand. She did not withdraw it abruptly this time as he pressed his lips respectfully to her fingers. But she did blush under his admiring glance.

"See, Henri!" his mother cried. "It is the good Bubu who has brought it. In code. Can you read it?"

She thrust the whisp of paper, taken from the dog's hollow tooth, under his eyes before pouring his cup of tea. Henri, begging Ruth's indulgence with a look, sat down before the table, his sword clanking. He smoothed the paper out upon the board and drew the reading glass to him.

"Wait!" Countess Marchand said. "You have had no luncheon! You are hungry, my dear boy?"

She hurried out of the room intent upon her son's comfort. Ruth watched the countenance of the major as he read the code message. She saw his expression become both serious and troubled.

Suddenly he turned in his chair and looked at the American girl. His gaze seemed significant, and Ruth began to tremble.

"Mademoiselle?"

"Yes, Monsieur?"

"You have questions to ask me, hein?"

"It is true, Major Marchand," she murmured, struggling for self-control. "I am eaten up by curiosity."

"Is it only curiosity that troubles you, Mademoiselle?" he said dryly.

"No! No! I am seriously alarmed. I am anxious—for a friend." Her voice was tense.

"You received a certain message?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, Major Marchand! And that excites me," she replied, more calmly now. "Was it really you who dropped the paper bomb at my feet?"

His eyes danced for a moment. "That was entirely—what you call—by chance. Mademoiselle, I spied you, and having the written message of your friend I inserted it in the bomb, twisted the neck of it, and let it fall at your feet. You are, of course, acquainted with Lieutenant Cameron?"

"He is the twin brother of my dearest friend," Ruth replied. "Helen is in Paris—helping make soup for French orphans," and she smiled. "Something that I have heard has worried me vastly about Tom." Her smile disappeared and her gaze at the French major was pleading.

His own countenance again fell into serious lines, and he tapped the table thoughtfully. Ruth clasped her hands as she waited. She felt that something untoward was about to be made known to her. There was something about Tom which would shock her.

"I am sorry, Mademoiselle," murmured the major. "Here is something said about Lieutenant Cameron."

"In that message Bubu brought?" she asked slowly.

"Yes. It is from my brother. Did you know that Lieutenant Cameron was working with the Count Marchand in Germany?"

"Oh, I did not know it until—until lately! There are such stories afloat!"

"Ah!" He smiled and nodded understandingly. "Do not let those idle tales annoy you. Lieutenant Cameron is a very able and a very honorable young man. He volunteered for the dangerous service. Of course, his comrades could not be told the truth. And it chanced he was observed speaking to one of our agents who came from the German side.

"At once it was decided that he would do well in the area of Merz, where Count Marchand is in command. You understand? Lieutenant Cameron's comrades were given the wrong impression. Otherwise, knowledge that he was a scout might have been easily discovered by German spies in this sector. Your friend speaks perfect German."

"Oh, yes," Ruth said. "He began to prattle to Babette, his German-Swiss nurse when he was a child."

"So he has been of much help to us near Merz. But my brother informs me now that a serious difficulty has arisen."

"What is it, Major Marchand?" asked the girl, with tightening lips.

"Lieutenant Cameron has been arrested. He is suspected by the Germans at Merz. He was furnished the papers and uniform of a Bavarian captain. The authorities are making an investigation. It may—I am desolated to say it, Mademoiselle!—become fatal for Lieutenant Cameron."



CHAPTER XVIII

BEARING THE BURDEN

It was dusk before Ruth Fielding arrived at the Clair Hospital after her exciting call at the Chateau Marchand. She had refused to allow Major Marchand to accompany her to the village, for she learned he must be off for the front lines later in the evening, and would in any case have but a few hours with his mother.

Ruth had conceived a plan.

She had been in serious conference with Major Marchand and the countess. Neither, of course, knew the particulars of Tom Cameron's arrest at Merz, beyond the German lines. However, they sympathized with her and applauded her desire to help Tom.

For there was a chance for Ruth to aid the young American lieutenant. The major admitted it, and the countess admired Ruth's courage in suggesting it.

The brief announcement of Tom's arrest sent by Count Marchand by Bubu, the greyhound, together with facts that the major knew, aided Ruth in gaining a pretty clear understanding of Tom Cameron's situation.

He had volunteered for this dangerous service and had been assigned to work with the French secret agents on both sides of the battle line. After his own comrades' suspicion was fixed on him, it was decided, Tom agreeing, that he would be able to do better work in Germany. Major Marchand had himself guided the American lieutenant to Merz, and introduced him to Count Allaire Marchand.

"And we both consider him, Mademoiselle," said the major generously, "a most promising recruit. We arranged for him to enter Merz in the guise of a wealthy Bavarian Hauptman on leave. Merz, you must understand, was quite a famous health resort before the war. Many foreigners, as well as Germans, went there to drink the waters. That is why we had a summer estate on the outskirts of Merz."

In addition, the major told of Tom's early successes in getting acquainted with the chief men of the town—particularly with the gouty old Prussian general, who was the military governor of the district. Information which Tom had gained, the major whispered, had spurred the American authorities in this sector to remove the civilian population for several miles back of the trenches.

There was soon to be a "surprise" attack upon the Americans, and the huge guns being brought up for the bombardment before the infantry advance might utterly wreck the open country immediately back of the American trenches.

Tom Cameron, posing as Captain Von Brenner, was apparently awaiting at Merz's best hotel the appearance of his sister, who, he declared, would join him before the conclusion of his furlough. At first the old general and the other authorities had accepted the American at his face value.

Somehow, suspicion must have been aroused within the last twenty-four hours. The message that had come by Bubu stated that Tom was under arrest as a suspicious person, but that he was detained only in the general's quarters.

It was something that might blow over. Finesse was required. Ruth had suggested a plan, which, although applauded by the major and his mother, they could not advise her to carry out. For, if it failed, her own peril would be as great as Tom Cameron's. In fact, the result of failure would be that both of them would be shot!

But the American girl was inspired for the task. So, urged by the countess, her son had agreed to assist Ruth in an attempt which he could but approve. Had Count Allaire Marchand, or any of his French operatives in and near Merz, attempted to assist in Tom Cameron's escape out of Germany, they would merely lay themselves open to suspicion, and possibly to arrest.

Ruth saw a code message written to the count, who was hiding on what had been the Marchand estate before the war, and then saw Bubu called into the library and the twist of oiled paper secreted in the dog's mouth. When the greyhound was released for his return journey to Merz, Ruth, likewise, left the chateau. A short time later, as has been said, she arrived safely at the hospital in the village.

Just as she was about to enter the gateway, a heavy touring car rumbled up the road from the south. It stopped before the hospital gate. There was a uniformed officer on the seat beside the chauffeur; but the only occupants of the tonneau were two women.

"We wish to see Miss Fielding," said one of these women, rising and speaking hastily to the sentinel who had presented arms before the gateway.

"I shall have to call somebody from inside, Mademoiselle," said the old territorial who was on guard duty. "There is such a name here, I believe."

"Never mind calling anybody!" Ruth suddenly exclaimed, springing forward. "Miss Fielding is here to answer the call. Will you girls tell me what under the sun you have come here for? I thought you would know enough to remain safely in Paris!"

"Ruthie!" shrieked Helen Cameron, fairly throwing herself from the automobile into Ruth's arms. "It is she! It is her! It is her owniest, owniest self!"

"Hold on," said the second occupant of the automobile tonneau, alighting more heavily. "Leave a bit for me to fall on, Nell."

"Don't you dare, Heavy Stone!" cried Ruth. "If you fell upon my frailness——"

"Hush! Tell it not in Gath," cried Jennie sepulchrally. "I have lost flesh—positively."

"Yes," agreed Helen, quite dramatically. "She barked her knuckle. Every little bit counts with Heavy, you know."

Ruth welcomed the plump girl quite as warmly as she did her own particular chum. Immediately the military automobile rolled away. The visitors both carried handbags.

"How did you come to get here—and where under the sun will you stay?" Ruth demanded again.

"Now, never mind worrying about us, Martha," Jennie Stone returned. "We will get along very well. Isn't there a hotel?"

"A hotel? In Clair?" gasped the girl of the Red Mill. "I—should—say—not!"

"Very well, dear; we'll put up wherever you say," said Helen airily. "We know you are always a favorite wherever you go, and you must have loads of friends here by this time."

"The unqualified nerve of you!" gasped Ruth. "But come in. I'll speak to Madame la Directrice and see what can be done. But how did you ever get permission to come here?" she repeated.

"It is our furlough. We have earned it. Haven't you earned a furlough yet?" Helen demanded, making big eyes at her chum.

"It never crossed my mind to ask for one," admitted the girl of the Red Mill. "But merely your having a furlough would not have won you a visit so near the front."

"Really?" asked Jennie. "Do you mean to say this is near the battle line?"

"You'd think so at times," returned Ruth. "But answer me! How did you get your passports viseed for such a distance from Paris?"

"Forget not," said Jennie, "that Mr. Cameron was over here on Government business. Helen can do almost anything she likes with these French officials."

"Humph!" was all that came from Ruth in answer to this.

"You don't seem glad to see us at all, Ruthie Fielding!" cried Helen, as they crossed the courtyard and mounted the steps to the hospital.

But Ruth was frankly considering how she could make the best use of her two college chums, now that they were here. In less than twenty-four hours she expected to leave Clair for an extended absence. She had been troubled regarding her duty to the Red Cross.

Circumstances had played into her hands. She could trust Helen and Jennie to do her work here at the Clair Hospital while she was absent.

She found the matron and took her aside before introducing her to the newcomers. She did not explain her reason for wishing to absent herself from duty for some days, nor did the tactful Frenchwoman ask after she was told that the Countess Marchand approved. But she told the matron about her two girl friends who had arrived so unexpectedly.

"They are good girls, and capable girls, and I can show them very briefly my ordinary duties, Madame."

"It is well, Mademoiselle Fielding," the woman said with cordiality. "Let me now greet your friends."

So Helen and Jennie were introduced, and the matron said she would find two rooms in the nurses' quarters for the visitors. But first the three girls must go to Ruth's little cell and have tea while they talked.

"First of all," Helen began. "How is Tommy-boy?"

"He is perfectly well as far as I know," Ruth said gravely.

"Goodness! You are not mad with him?"

"Of course not. How silly," her chum returned.

"Well, but don't you see him every day or two?"

Ruth Fielding stared at her chum, not alone with gravity, but with scorn.

"I think it is well you have come up here to visit," she said. "Don't you know yet that we are in this war, Helen Cameron?"

"I don't know what you mean," returned Helen, pouting. "If we were not at war with Germany, do you think I would be away from Ardmore College at this time of year?"

"Tom is on active service," Ruth said quietly. "I am rather busily engaged myself. I have seen him just twice since I have been at Clair. But I happened to learn to-day that—beyond peradventure—he is in health."

"That's good enough!" exclaimed Helen. "And I suppose you can get word to him so he'll know Jennie and I are here?"

"I will try to get word to him," agreed Ruth soberly.

"He can ask off and come to see us, can't he?"

"Not being in military charge of this sector, I cannot tell you," the girl of the Red Mill said dryly. "But if you remain here long enough I hope Tom will come to see you, my dear."

She could tell them no more. Indeed, to-night she did not even wish the girls to know that she proposed absenting herself from the hospital for a time and expected Helen and Jennie to do her work.

She had a burden to shoulder that she could not share with her friends. She sent them to their beds a little later to sleep confidently and happily after their long journey from Paris.

As for Ruth Fielding, she scarcely closed her eyes that night.



CHAPTER XIX

ADVENTURE

In the dawn of the next morning Ruth arose and rearranged all her stock of supplies and corrected the schedule of goods on hand. Despite her recent activities she had kept her accounts up to date and every record was properly audited.

Before Helen Cameron and Jennie Stone even knew how Ruth proposed making use of them, the girl of the Red Mill had explained her plan fully to the matron. That the Americaine Mademoiselle was so friendly with the grand folk at the chateau rather awed the Frenchwoman. She could find no fault with anything Ruth did.

But there was a great outcry when, at breakfast, Ruth explained to Helen and Jennie that she was called away from the hospital on private and important business, and for several days.

"She's running away to be married!" gasped Jennie Stone. "Treason!"

"Your romantic imagination is ever on tap, isn't it, Heavy?" responded Ruth with scorn.

"That's all right," returned the plump girl sharply. "You look out for your brother Tom, Helen Cameron."

"But it may be one of these French officers," Helen said, with more mildness. "Some of them are awfully nice."

"Don't be ridiculous, girls!" Ruth observed.

"Really it isn't at all nice of you, my dear," her chum said.

"I'm not doing this because it is nice," flared Ruth, whose nerves were a little raw by now. "It is something I have to do."

"What, then?" demanded Jennie.

"I can't tell you! It is not my secret! If it were, don't you suppose I would take you both into my confidence?"

"I don't know about that," grumbled Jennie Stone.

"I had made arrangements to do this before you came," the girl of the Red Mill said, rather provoked. "You must take me at my word. I cannot do differently. I never told you girls a falsehood in my life."

"Goodness, Ruthie!" exclaimed Helen, with sudden good sense. "Say no more about it. Of course we know you would not desert us if it could be helped. If Tom would only come while you are gone——"

"I may be able to communicate with him," Ruth said, turning her head quickly so that her chum should not see her expression of countenance. "And there is something you girls can do for me while I am gone."

"I warrant!" groaned Jennie. "No rest for the wicked. Don't try to think up anything in the line of cooking for me, Ruthie Fielding, for I won't do it! I have come here to get away from cooking."

"Will you fast then, while you remain at Clair?" asked Ruth rather wickedly.

"Ow-wow!" shrieked the plump girl. "How you can twist a fellow's meaning around! No! I merely will not cook!"

"But she still hopes to eat," said Helen. "What is it you want of your poor slaves, Lady Ruth?"

"Do my work here while I'm gone. Look out for the supplies. I can break you both in this morning. I do not know just when I shall be called for——"

"By whom, pray?" put in the saucy Jennie drawlingly.

Ruth ignored the question. "You will not find this work difficult. And, as Jennie suggests, it will be a change."

"Good-night!" groaned Jennie.

"Don't lose heart, sister," said Helen cheerfully. "I understand that Ruth often goes into the wards and writes letters for the poor poilus, and feeds them canned peaches and soft puddings. Isn't that what you do, Ruthie?"

"Better not let me do that," grumbled Jennie. "I might be tempted to eat the goodies myself. I'll write the letters."

"Heaven help the home folks of the poor poilus, my dear," Helen responded. "Nobody—not even Madame Picolet—could ever read your written French."

"Well! I do declare!" exclaimed the fleshy girl, tossing her head. "I suppose the duty will devolve upon me to eat all the blesses' fancy food for them. Dear me, Ruthie Fielding! Don't stay long. For if you do I shall utterly ruin my figure."

It was very kind of the girls to agree to Ruth's suggestion, and she appreciated it. But she could not tell them anything about what she was to do while she was absent from the hospital.

Indeed, she barely knew herself what she would do—in detail, that is. She had put herself in the hands of Major Marchand and must wait to hear from him.

She dared not breathe to Helen a word of Tom's trouble. Nobody must know that she, Ruth, hoped in some way to aid him to escape from beyond the German lines.

It seemed almost impossible for a girl—any girl—to pass from one side of the battle front to the other. From the sea on the Belgian coast to the Alps the trenches ran in continuous lines. Division after division of Belgians, British and their colonial troops, French, and Americans held the trenches on this side, facing a great horde of Germans.

In places the huge guns stood so close together they all but touched. Beyond these were the front trenches, in which the sharpshooters and the machine-gun men watched the enemy. And beyond again were the listening posts and the wire entanglements.

How could a girl ever get through the jungle of barbed wire? And in places the Huns had strung live wires, carrying voltages strong enough to kill a man, just as they did along the borderland of Holland.

When Ruth thought of these things she lost hope. But she tried not to think at all. Major Marchand had bade her be of good hope.

She kept her mind occupied in showing the two girls their duties and in introducing them to such of the nurses and other workers as Ruth herself knew well.

It was rather late in the afternoon, and she had heard no word of the major, when Ruth and her two friends came out of a lower ward to the main entrance of the hospital just as an ambulance rolled in. Two of the brancardiers came out of the hospital and drew forth one stretcher on which a convalescent patient lay.

"Oh, the poor man!" murmured Helen. "What do they do with him now?"

"He has come in from a field hospital," began Ruth. And then she saw the face of the ambulance driver. "Oh, Charlie Bragg!" she called.

"What did I tell you?" said Jennie solemnly. "She knows 'em all. They grow on bushes around here, I warrant."

"They don't grow 'em like Charlie on bushes, I assure you," declared Ruth, laughing, and she ran down the steps to speak to the ambulance driver, for she saw that he wanted to say something to her.

"Miss Ruth, I was told to whisper something in your private ear, and when I have said it, you are to do it, instantly."

"Goodness! What do you mean, Charlie Bragg?" she gasped.

"Listen. Those two brancardiers are coming for the second man. When they start up the steps with him, you pop into the back of the ambulance."

"Why, Charlie!" she murmured in utter amazement.

"Are you going to do as you are told?" he demanded with much apparent fierceness.

"But the third man? You have another wounded man inside."

The stretcher-bearers slid the second convalescent out of the ambulance.

"Now!" whispered Charlie. "Do as you are told."

Half understanding, yet still much puzzled, the girl went around to the rear of the ambulance. It was half dark within, but she saw the man lying on the third stretcher, the one overhead, put out a hand and beckon her. She could see nothing of his face, his head was so much bandaged. One arm seemed strapped to his side, too.

The engine of the car began to purr. Charlie clashed the clutch. Ruth jumped upon the step, and then crept into the covered vehicle. The car leaped ahead.

She heard Jennie Stone exclaim in utter amazement:

"Well, what do you think of that? What did I tell you, Helen? She is actually running away."

In half a minute the ambulance was out of the courtyard and the dust of the village street wan rising behind it, as Charlie Bragg swung the car into high gear.

This was adventure, indeed!



CHAPTER XX

ON THE RAW EDGE OF NO MAN'S LAND

"Sit down, Mademoiselle," said a low voice. "There is a cushion yonder. Make no sound—at least, not until we are out of the village."

Ruth could only gasp. There was light enough under the ambulance roof for her to see the speaker creep down from the swinging stretcher. He moved very carefully, but his bandages were evidently camouflage.

The jouncing of the automobile made her uncomfortable. Charlie Bragg was driving at his usual reckless pace. Ruth did not even laugh over the surprise of Helen and Jennie at her departure. She was too deeply interested in the actions of the man with her in the ambulance.

He was unwinding the bandage that strapped his left arm to his side and, with gravity, removed the splints that had evidently been put in place by a professional hand.

His arm, however, was as well and strong as Ruth's own. She saw that he wore a familiar, patched, blue smock, baggy trousers, and wooden shoes. He began to look like the mysterious Nicko, the chocolate vender!

Then he unwrapped his head. There were yards of the gauze and padding. To believe his first appearance once might have thought that his jaw had been shot away.

But at last Ruth saw his unmarred face so clearly that she could no longer doubt his identity. It was Major Marchand. And yet, it was Nicko!

"Pardon, Mademoiselle," said the officer softly. "It is necessary that I go disguised at times. My poor friend, Nicko (perhaps you saw him at the field hospital to which you were assigned for a week?), allows me to dress like him and did, indeed, allow me to live in his house at times. Now he has been removed from his home and fields with the rest."

"I think I understand, Major Marchand," she answered.

"I was much interested in a wounded Uhlan captain who was in that hospital. He began by trying to bribe our poor Nicko, thinking the chocolate peddler too weak-minded to be patriotic. He was mistaken," and the major nodded. "Had the Uhlan not died of his wounds I believe I should have got something of moment from him."

Ruth shook her head and asked: "Where are you taking me? Oh! I thought Charlie would have us over then!"

The major smiled. "Our friend, Monsieur Bragg, is faithful and wise; but he drives like Jehu. I have engaged him to transport us a part of the way."

"Part of the way to where?"

"To where we are going," Major Marchand replied dryly enough.

"But I was not exactly prepared, Major Marchand," Ruth said. "I am not properly clothed. I wear slippers and I have no hat."

"Trouble not regarding that," he told her. "It would be impossible for you to take a wardrobe across No Man's Land. An outfit of proper clothing must be secured for you upon the other side."

"Will that be possible?"

"German women still dress in the mode, Mademoiselle. And the garments you wear at Merz must bear the labels of Berlin tradesmen."

"Goodness! I never thought of that," admitted Ruth.

"Somebody must think of all the details," he said gently. "My brother will attend to it all."

"Count Allaire?"

"Yes. He is a master of detail," and the major smiled and nodded.

"You speak as though I were sure of getting across," Ruth whispered.

"Have no doubt, Mademoiselle. We must get over. Doubt never won in a contest yet. Have courage."

After another minute of jouncing about in the furiously driven ambulance, the girl continued her questioning:

"What am I to do first?"

"Do as you are told," he smiled.

"We are going toward the front now? Yes? And at what part of the line can we cross?"

"There is but one place where it is possible for you to get over. It is at the Savoie Swamps. It is a wild and deserted place—has always been. There is a little lake much sought by fishermen in the summers before the war started. The shores immediately about it are always marshy. At this season they are inundated."

"Then, how am I to get through?"

"That you will be able to understand better when you are there," said the officer noncommittally.

"Is it open country?" she asked wonderingly. "Shall we be quite exposed?"

"Not at night," he returned grimly. "And it is partly forest covered, that morass. The guns have shattered the forest in places. But most of the huge shells which drop into the swamp never explode."

"Oh!"

"Yes. They are very, very dangerous—those duds. But they will not be our only peril in crossing. Have you a brave heart, Mademoiselle?"

"I am going to help Tom Cameron escape," she said firmly.

He bowed and said nothing more until she again spoke.

"I can see that it may be possible for a man to get through that swamp—or across the lake by boat. But how about me? My dress——"

"I am afraid we shall have to disguise you, Mademoiselle," Major Marchand said with one of his flashing smiles. "But do not take thought of it. All will be arranged."

This was comforting, but only to a slight degree. Ruth Fielding was not a person given to allowing things to take their course. She usually planned far ahead and "made things come her way."

She stared out rather stonily upon the landscape. Charlie was still driving at his maddest gait. They passed few houses, and those they did pass were deserted.

"Your Americans, Mademoiselle," said the major, "have prepared for the expected German advance with a completeness—yes! They have my admiration."

"But will the attack come?" she asked doubtfully.

"Surely. As I told you, Mademoiselle, we can thank your young friend, Lieutenant Cameron, for the warning. Through his advantage with General Stultz he gained such information. The High Command of the German Armies has planned this attack upon the first American-held trenches."

"Oh, what will they do to poor Tom if they are sure he is a spy?" murmured Ruth, for the moment breaking down.

"We will get there first," was the assurance given her.

"But his sister—Helen—— Think of it, Major Marchand! She has just arrived at Clair and awaits him there at the hospital. I have not dared tell her that Tom has been caught by the Germans."

"Fear not," he urged her. "There is yet hope."

But every now and then Ruth felt her courage melting. It seemed so impossible for her to do this great thing she had set out to do. She felt her limitations.

Yet it was not personal fear that troubled her. She would have pressed forward, even had she been obliged to essay the crossing of No Man's Land alone.

At last the jouncing ambulance came to a rocking halt.

"As far as I can take you folks in this old fliver, I guess," drawled Charlie Bragg. "An unhealthy looking place for a picnic."

He twisted around in his seat to look at Ruth. She smiled wanly at him, while the Major got down quickly and offered her his hand.

"Is it all right, Ruth?" Charlie whispered. "I don't know this French chap."

"Don't fear for me, Charlie dear," she returned. "He is Major Henri Marchand. I fancy he is high in the French Army. And I know his mother—a very lovely lady."

"Oh, all right," responded the boy shortly. "One of the family, as you might say? Take care of yourself. Haven't heard from Cameron, have you?"

"That is what I am here for," whispered Ruth. "I hope I shall hear of him soon."

"Well, best o' luck!" said Charlie Bragg, as Ruth followed the major out of the rear of the ambulance.

The evening was falling. They stood at the mouth of a wide gully up which the car could not have traveled. The latter turned in a swirl of dust and pounded back toward the rear. When it was out of sight and the noise of it had died away, there did not seem to be any other sound about them.

"Where are we?" asked Ruth.

"Let us see," returned Major Marchand cheerfully. "I think we shall find somebody up this way."

They walked up the gully some hundreds of yards until they finally came out upon a narrow plain at the top. On this mesa was a ruined dwelling of two stories and some shattered farm buildings.

"Halt!" was the sudden command.

A man in khaki appeared from a clump of trees near the house, advancing his rifle.

"Friends," said the major quietly.

"Advance one friend with the countersign."

Major Marchand stepped ahead of Ruth and whispered something to the sentinel.

"Guess it's all right, Boss," said the sentinel, who evidently had no French. "But you can't proceed in this direction."

"Why not, mon ami?"

"New orders. Something doing up front. Wait till my relief comes on in half an hour. Top-sergeant will tell you."

"But we must go forward," urged the major, rather vexed.

"Don't worry," advised the American. "General orders takes the 'must' out of mustard even, and don't you forget it. If you were a soldier, you'd learn that," and he chuckled. "Come on over to the dyke and sit down—you and the lady," and he favored Ruth with an admiring glance.

The American girl did not speak, and it was evident that the sentinel thought her French like her companion. The three strolled along to the grassy bank behind the trees and directly before the half-ruined house.

Shell fire had destroyed one end of it. But the other end wall was complete. On the second floor was a window. The lower sash was removed, but in the upper sash there were several small, unbroken panes of glass.

There was the smell of smoke in the air, and the two newcomers spied a little handful of fire blazing on a rock under the dyke. Here the sentinel had made his little camp, and it was evident that he had boiled coffee and toasted meat within the hour.

"Great housekeeping," he said, grinning. "When I get back home I guess my mother'll make me do all the kitchen work. Ain't war what General Sherman said it was—and then some?"

"But we wish to hurry on, Monsieur," said the major quietly.

"Nothing doing!" responded the sentinel. "I got particular orders not to let anybody pass—not even with the word. Just stick around a little while, you and the lady. Toppy'll be along soon."

Ruth wondered that the French officer did not reveal his identity. But she remained silent herself, knowing that Major Marchand must have good reason for not wishing his rank known.

"We got to watch this old ranch," continued the talkative sentinel, nodding toward the half-ruined dwelling. "Somebody thinks there's something besides cooties in it. Yep," as the major started and looked at him questioningly. "Spies. Those Dutchmen are mighty smart, they do say. I'm told they flash signals from that window up yonder clear across the swamps to the German lines. Now, when it gets dark——"

He nodded and pursed his lips. The major nodded in return. Ruth remained silent, but she was becoming nervous. While they were in action and going forward the suspense was not so hard to bear. But now she began to wonder how she was ever going to cross that morass the major had told her about. And half a hundred other difficulties paraded through her troubled mind.

They sat upon the bank, and waited. The sentinel continued to march up and down just the other side of the fire, occasionally throwing a remark at the major, but usually with his face turned toward the house, which was distant about five furlongs.

Suddenly Ruth observed that Major Marchand had in his palm a little round mirror. He seemed to be manipulating it to catch the firelight. Ruth saw in a moment what he was about.

The sentinel stopped in his beat with a smothered exclamation. His back was to them and he was staring up at the open window of the house.

There came a flash of light from the window—another! Like lightning the sentinel raised his rifle and fired pointblank into the opening on the second floor.

Then, with a shout, he dashed across the intervening space and disappeared within the house. Major Marchand seized Ruth's hand and rose to his feet.



CHAPTER XXI

A NIGHT TO BE REMEMBERED

"Come!" the French officer whispered. "Now is our chance."

"Oh!" Ruth murmured, scarcely understanding.

"Haste! He will be back in a minute," the officer said.

He helped her over the dyke, and, stooping, they ran away from the abandoned house from which the puzzled American sentinel thought he had seen a spy flashing a light signal to the enemy lines.

"Fortunately, I had a little mirror," murmured Major Marchand, as he and the girl hurried on through the dusk. "With it, you see, I flashed a reflection of the firelight upon the broken panes of that upper window. Our brave young American will discover his mistake before his relief comes. We could not wait for that. Nor could we easily explain to his top-sergeant why we wished to go forward."

"Oh!" murmured Ruth again. "In your work, Monsieur, I see you have to take chances with both sides."

"It is true. Our own friends must not suspect too much about us. The best spy, Mademoiselle, plays a lone hand. Come! This way. We must dodge these other sentinels."

It was evident that he knew the vicinity well. Beyond the mesa they descended through a grove of big trees, whose tops had been shot off by the German guns.

They traveled through the lowland swiftly but cautiously. Ruth could not see the way, and clung to Major Marchand's hand. But she tried to make no sound.

Once he drew her aside into a jungle of brush and they crouched there, completely hidden, while a file of soldiers marched by, their file leader flashing an electric torch to show the way.

"The relief," whispered Major Marchand, when they had gone. "They may be swarming down this hill after us in a few minutes."

The two hurried on. The keen feeling of peril and adventure gripped Ruth Fielding's soul. It was not with fear that she trembled now.

At length they halted in a pitch-black place, which might have been almost anything but the sheepfold Major Marchand told Ruth it was. He produced an officer's trench whistle and blew a long and peculiar blast on it.

"Now, hush!" he whispered. "It is against usage to use these whistles for anything but the command to go over the top at 'zero.' Necessity, however, Mademoiselle, knows no law."

They waited. Not a sound answered. There was no stir on any side of them. Ruth's fears seemed quenched entirely. Now a feeling of exultation gripped her. She was fairly into this adventure. It was too late to go back.

The major blew the whistle a second time and in the same way. Suddenly a dark figure loomed before them. There was a word In French spoken out of the darkness. It was not the password the Major had given the American sentinel.

"Come, Mademoiselle," said the major. "Give me your hand again."

Ruth's warm hand slipped confidently into his enclosing palm. The Frenchman's courtesy and unfailing gentleness had assured her that she was perfectly safe in his care.

They left the sheepfold, the second man, whoever he was, moving ahead to guide them. Even in the open it was now very dark. There was no moon, and the stars were faint and seemed very far away.

Finally Ruth saw that a ridge of land confronted them; but they did not climb its face. Instead, they followed a winding path along its foot, which soon, to the girl's amazement, became a tunnel. It was dimly lit with an electric bulb here and there along its winding length.

"Where are we?" she whispered to the major.

"This is the first approach-trench," he returned. "But silence, Mademoiselle. Your voice is not—well, it is not masculine."

She understood that she was not to attract attention. A woman in the trenches would, indeed, create both curiosity and remark.

The guide stopped within a few yards and sought out trench helmets that they all put on. When the strap was fastened under her chin Ruth almost laughed aloud. What would Helen and Jennie say if they could see her in this brand of millinery?

She controlled her laughter, however. Here, at the first cross-trench, stood a sentry who let them by when the ghostly leader of the trio, whose face she could not see at all, had whispered the password. Ruth walked between her two companions, and her dress was not noticed in the dark.

Soon they were out of the tunnels through the ridge. Later she learned that the ridge was honeycombed with them. The trench they entered was broader and open to the sky. And muddy!

She stepped once off the "duckboards" laid down in the middle of the passway and dipped half-way to her knee in the mire. She felt that if the major had not pulled her up quickly she might have sunk completely out of sight.

But she did not utter a sound. He whispered in her ear:

"I admire your courage, Mademoiselle. Just a short distance farther. Do not lose heart."

"I am just beginning to feel brave," she whispered in return.

Presently the leader stopped. They waited a moment while he fumbled along the boarded side of the trench. Then a plank slid back. It was the door of a dugout.

"This way, Major," the man said in French.

The major pushed Ruth through the narrow opening. The plank door was closed. It was a vile-smelling place.

A match was scratched, a tiny flame sprang up, and then there flared a candle—one of those trench candles made of rolled newspapers and paraffin. It illumined the dugout faintly.

There were bunks along the walls, and in the middle of the planked cave was a rustic table and two benches. Evidently the men who sometimes occupied this trench had spent their idle hours here. But to Ruth Fielding it seemed a fearful place in which to sleep, and eat, and loaf away the long hours of trench duty.

"All ready for us, Tremp?" asked Major Marchand of the man who had led them to this spot.

The American girl now saw that the man was a squat Frenchman in the horizon blue uniform of the infantry and with the bars of a sergeant. He was evidently one of the French officers assigned to teach the Americans in the trenches.

In his own tongue the man replied to his superior. He drew from one of the empty bunks two bulky bundles. The major shook them out and they proved to be two suits of rubber over-alls and boots together—a garment to be drawn on from the feet and fastened with buckled straps over the shoulders. They enclosed the whole body to the armpits in a waterproof garment.

"A complete disguise for you, Mademoiselle—with the helmet," Major Marchand suggested. "And a protection from the water."

"The water?" gasped Ruth.

"We have half a mile of morass to cross after we get out of the trenches," was the reply. "I am unable to carry you over that, pickaback. You will have to wade, Mademoiselle."



CHAPTER XXII

THROUGH THE GERMAN LINES

Perhaps this was the moment most trying for Ruth Fielding in all that long-to-be-remembered night. And the Frenchmen realized it.

Having come so far and already having endured so much, however, the girl of the Red Mill was of no mind to break down. But the thought introduced into her brain by Major Marchand's last words was troubling her.

As for roughing it in such an admirable garment as this rubber suit, Ruth was not at all distressed. She had camped out in the wilderness, ridden half-broken cow ponies on a Wyoming ranch, and gone fishing in an open boat. It was not the mannish dress that fretted her.

It was the suggestion of the long and arduous passage between the American trenches and the German trenches. What lay for her in that No Man's Land of which she had heard so much?

"I am ready," she said at length, and calmly. "Am I to remove my skirts?"

"Quite unnecessary, Mademoiselle," replied the major respectfully. "See! The garment is roomy. It was made, you may be sure, for a man of some size. Your skirts will ruffle up around you and help to keep you warm. At this time in the year the swamp water is as cold as the grave."

Without further question the girl stepped into the rubber suit. Sergeant Tremp helped to draw it up to her armpits, and then buckled it over her shoulders. He showed her, too, how to pull in the belt.

She immediately felt that she would be dry and warm in the suit. And, although the boots seemed loaded, she could walk quite well in them. Major Marchand gave her a pair of warm gloves, which she drew on, after tucking her hair up under her helmet all around.

The major thrust two automatic pistols into his belt. But he gave her a small electric torch to carry, warning her not to use it.

"Then why give it to me?" she asked.

"Ah, Mademoiselle! We might need it. Now—allons!"

Tremp slid the plank back, and they filed out into the trench after he had looked both ways to make sure that the coast was clear. Ruth wondered what would happen to them if they were caught by an American patrol? Perhaps be apprehended for the spies they were—only the Americans would think them spying for the Huns!

The major's hands were full. Before the candle had been put out Ruth had seen him pick up two gas-masks, and he carried these as they stumbled along the duckboards toward the next cross trench.

"Halt!"

A sibilant whisper. Sergeant Tremp muttered something in reply. The trio turned the corner and immediately it seemed they were at the back of the firing shelf where—every so far apart—the figures of riflemen stood waiting for any possible German attack. The men in the trenches at night are ever on the alert.

Nobody molested the girl and her companions. Indeed, it was too dark to see much in the trench. But the sergeant seemed to know his way about perfectly.

Little wonder in that. The French had dug these trenches and Sergeant Tremp knew them as he did the paths in the environs of his native village.

At a dark corner he clucked with his tongue and brought them to a halt.

"This is it, Major," he whispered, after peering about.

"Good!" ejaculated the officer softly. "Let me step ahead, Mademoiselle. Cling to my belt behind. Try to walk in my footsteps."

"Yes," she breathed.

Tremp seemed to melt into the darkness. Major Marchand turned at an abrupt angle and Ruth followed him as he had desired. She knew they were passing through a very narrow passage. The earth was scraped from the walls by their elbows and rattled down upon their feet.

The passage rose slightly. The bottom of the trench they had just left—the very front line—was all of thirty feet in depth at this point. This narrow tunnel was thrust out into No Man's Land and led to a listening post.

At least, so she supposed, and she was not mistaken. Nor was she mistaken in her supposition that Tremp was no longer with them. He was not prepared to cross the Savoie morass.