stewart, standing petrified, collar in hand, thrilling with the warmth of that caress, was conscious that his free arm had dropped about the woman's waist, and that she was cuddling to him, patting him excitedly on the cheek and smiling up into his eyes. then, over her shoulder, he caught a glimpse of the sardonic smile on the ugly face of the waiter as he withdrew and closed the door.

"but how glad i am!" the woman rattled on, at the top of her voice. "and what a journey! i am covered with dirt! i shall need gallons of water!"

she walked rapidly to the door, opened it, and looked out. then she closed and locked it, and, to his amazement, caught up one of his handkerchiefs and hung it over the knob so that it masked the keyhole.

"they will not suspect," she said, in a lower tone, noticing his look. "they will suppose it is to conceal our marital endearments! now we can talk. but we will keep to english, if you do not mind. someone might pass. is everything arranged? is the passport in order?"

her eyes were shining with excitement, her lips were trembling. as he still stood staring, she came close to him and shook his arm.

"can it be that you do not know english?" she demanded. "but that would be too stupid! you understand english, do you not?"

"yes, madam," stammered stewart. "at least, i have always thought so."

"then why do you not answer? is anything wrong? you look as though you did not expect me."

"madam," answered stewart, gravely, "will you kindly pinch me on the arm—here in the tender part? i have been told that is a test."

she nipped him with a violence that made him jump.

"do not tell me that you are drunk!" she hissed, viciously. "that would be too much! drunk at such a moment!"

but stewart had begun to pull himself together.

"no, madam, i am not drunk," he assured her; "and your pinch convinces me that i am not dreaming." he rubbed his arm thoughtfully. "there remains only one hypothesis—that i have suddenly gone mad. and yet i have never heard of any madness in my family, nor until this moment detected any symptoms in myself."

"is this a time for fooling?" she snapped. "tell me at once—"

"there is, of course, another hypothesis," went on stewart, calmly, "and that is that it is you who are mad—"

"were you not expecting me?" she repeated.

stewart's eyes fell upon the satin slippers, and he smiled.

"why, certainly i was expecting you," he answered. "i was just saying to myself that the only thing lacking in this fairy-tale was the beautiful cinderella—and presto; there you were!"

she looked at him wildly, her eyes dark with fear. suddenly she caught her lower lip between the thumb and little finger of her left hand, and stood a moment expectantly, holding it so and staring up at him. then, as he stared back uncomprehendingly, she dropped into a chair and burst into a flood of tears.

now a pretty woman in tears is, as everyone knows, a sight to melt a heart of stone, especially if that heart be masculine. this woman was extremely pretty, and stewart's heart was very masculine, with nothing granitic about it.

"oh, come," he protested, "it can't be so bad as that! let us sit down and talk this thing out quietly. evidently there is a mistake somewhere."

"then you did not expect me?" she demanded, mopping her eyes.

"expect you? no—except as the fulfillment of a fairy-tale."

"you do not know who i am?"

"i haven't the slightest idea."

"nor why i am here?"

"no."

"ah, ciel!" she breathed, "then i am lost!" and she turned so pale that stewart thought she was going to faint.

"lost!" he protested. "in what way lost? what do you mean?"

by a mighty effort she fought back the faintness and regained a little of her self-control.

"at this hotel," she explained, in a hoarse voice, "i was to have met a man who was to accompany me across the frontier. he had a passport for both of us—for himself and for his wife."

"you were to pass as his wife?"

"yes."

"but you did not know the man?"

"evidently—or i should not have—"

she stopped, her face crimson with embarrassment.

"h-m!" said stewart, reflecting that he, at least, had no reason to regret the mistake. "perhaps this unknown is in some other room."

"no; you are the only person in the hotel."

"evidently, then, he has not arrived."

"evidently," she assented, and stared moodily at the floor, twisting her handkerchief in nervous, trembling hands.

stewart rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he looked at her. she seemed not more than twenty, and she was almost startlingly beautiful, with that peculiar lustrous duskiness of skin more common among the latin races than with us. slightly built, she yet gave the impression of having in reserve unusual nervous energy, which would brace her to meet any crisis.

but what was she doing here? why should she be driven to leave germany as the wife of a man whom she had never seen? or was it all a lie—was she merely an adventuress seeking a fresh victim?

stewart looked at her again, then he put that thought away, definitely and forever. he had had enough experience of women, as surgeon in a public clinic, to tell innocence from vice; and he knew that it was innocence he was facing now.

"you say you can't leave germany without a passport?" he asked at last.

"no one can leave germany without a passport." she sat up suddenly and looked at him, a new light in her eyes. "is it possible," she demanded, with trembling lips, "can it be possible that you possess a passport?"

"why, yes," said stewart, "i have a passport. unfortunately, it is for myself alone. never having had a wife——"

but she was standing before him, her hands outstretched, tremulous with eagerness.

"let me see it!" she cried. "oh, let me see it!"

he got it out, gave it to her, and watched her as she unfolded it. here was a woman, he told himself, such as he had never met before—a woman of verve, of fire——

she was looking up at him with flaming eyes.

"mr. stewart," she said, in a low voice, "you can save me, if you will."

"save you?" echoed stewart. "but how?"

she held the open passport toward him.

"see, here, just below your name, there is a blank space covered with little parallel lines. if you will permit me to write in that space the words 'accompanied by his wife,' i am saved. the passport will then be for both of us."

"or would be," agreed stewart, dryly, "if you were my wife. as it happens, you are not!"

"it is such a little thing i ask of you," she pleaded. "we go to the station together—we take our seats in the train—at the frontier you show your passport. an hour later we shall be at liège, and there our ways will part; but you will have done a noble action."

there was witchery in her eyes, in her voice. stewart felt himself slipping—slipping; but he caught himself in time.

"i am afraid," he said, gently, "that you will have to tell me first what it is all about."

"i can tell you in a word," she answered, drawing very near to him, and speaking almost in a whisper. "i am a frenchwoman."

"but surely," stewart protested, "the germans will not prevent your return to france! why should they do that?"

"it is not a question of returning, but of escaping. i am an alsatian. i was born at strassburg."

"oh," said stewart, remembering the tone in which bloem had spoken of alsace-lorraine and beginning vaguely to understand. "an alsatian."

"yes; but only alsatians understand the meaning of that word. to be an alsatian is to be a slave, is to be the victim of insult, oppression, tyranny past all belief. my father was murdered by the germans; my two brothers have been dragged away into the german army and sent to fight the russians, since germany knows well that no alsatian corps would fight the french! oh, how we have prayed and prayed for this war of restitution—the war which will give us back to france!"

"yes; i hope it will," agreed stewart, heartily.

"of a certainty you do!" she said, eagerly. "all americans do. not one have i ever known who took the german side. how could they? how could any american be on the side of despotism? oh, impossible! america is on our side! and you, as an american, will assist me to escape my enemies."

"your enemies?"

"i will not deceive you," she said, earnestly. "i trust you. i have lived all my life at strassburg and at metz, those two outposts against france—those two great fortresses of cities which the germans have done their utmost to make impregnable, but which are not impregnable if attacked in a certain way. they have their weak spot, just as every fortress has. i have dissembled, i have lied—i have pretended to admire the gold-laced pigs—i have permitted them to kiss my hand—i have listened to their confidences, their hopes and fears—i have even joined in their toast 'the day!' always, always have i kept my eyes and ears open. bit by bit, have i gathered what i sought—a hint here, a hint there.... i must get to france, my friend, and you must help me! surely you will be glad to strike a blow at these braggart prussians! it is not for myself i ask it—though, if i am taken, there will be for me only one brief moment, facing a file of soldiers; i ask it for france—for your sister republic!"

if it had been for france alone, stewart might still have hesitated; but as he gazed down into that eloquent face, wrung with desperate anxiety, he seemed to see, as in a vision, a file of soldiers in spiked helmets facing a wall where stood a lovely girl, her eyes flaming, her head flung back, smiling contemptuously at the leveled rifles; he saw again the flickering candles at the virgin's feet——

"very well," he said, abruptly—almost harshly. "i consent."

before he could draw back, she had flung herself on her knees before him, had caught his hand, and was covering it with tears and kisses.

"come, come, my dear," he said. "that won't do!" and he bent over her and raised her to her feet.

she was shaken with great sobs, and as she turned her streaming eyes up to him, her lips moving as if in prayer, stewart saw how young she was, how lonely, how beautiful, how greatly in need of help. she had been fighting for her country with all her strength, with every resource, desperately, every nerve a-strain—and victory had been too much for her. but in a moment she had back her self-control.

"there, it is finished!" she said, smiling through her tears. "but the joy of your words was almost too great. i shall not behave like that again. and i shall not try to thank you. i think you understand—i cannot thank you—there are no words great enough."

stewart nodded, smilingly.

"yes; i understand," he said.

"we have many things to do," she went on, rapidly, passing her handkerchief across her eyes with the gesture of one who puts sentiment aside. "first, the passport," and she caught it up from the chair on which she had laid it.

"i would point out to you," said stewart, "that there may be a certain danger in adding the words you mentioned."

"but it is precisely for those words this blank space has been left."

"that may be true; but unless your handwriting is identical with that on the rest of the passport, and the ink the same, the first person who looks at it will detect the forgery."

"trust me," she said, and drawing a chair to the table, laid the passport before her and studied it carefully. from the little bag she had carried on her arm, she took a fountain-pen. she tested it on her finger-nail, and then, easily and rapidly, wrote "accompanied by his wife" across the blank space below stewart's name.

stewart, staring down over her shoulder, was astonished by the cleverness of the forgery. it was perfect.

"there," she added, "let it lie for five minutes and no one on earth can tell that those words were not written at the same time and by the same hand as all the others."

a sudden doubt shook her hearer. where had she learned to forge like that? perhaps, after all——

she read his thought in his eyes.

"to imitate handwriting is something which every member of the secret service must learn to do. this, on your passport, is a formal hand very easily imitated. but i must rid myself of this pen."

she glanced quickly about the room, went to the open fireplace and threw the pen above the bricks which closed it off from the flue. then she came back, motioned him to sit down, and drew a chair very close to his.

"now we have certain details to arrange," she said. "your name is bradford stewart?"

"yes."

"have you a sobriquet?"

"a what?"

"a name of familiarity," she explained, "used only by your family or your friends."

"oh, a nickname! well," he admitted, unwillingly, "my father always called me tommy."

"tommy! excellent! i shall call you tommy!"

"but i detest tommy," he objected.

"no matter!" she said, peremptorily. "it will have to do. what is your profession?"

"i am a surgeon."

"where do you live in america?"

"at baltimore, in the state of maryland."

"where have you been in europe?"

"to a clinical congress at vienna, and then back through germany."

"perfect! it could not be better! now, listen most carefully. the name of your wife is mary. you have been married four years."

"any children?" asked stewart.

"please be serious!" she protested, but from the sparkle in her eye stewart saw that she was not offended.

"i should have liked a boy of three and a girl of two," he explained. "but no matter—go ahead."

"while you went to vienna to attend your horrible clinic and learn new ways of cutting up human bodies, your wife remained at spa, because of a slight nervous affection——"

"from which," said stewart, "i am happy to see that she has entirely recovered."

"yes," she agreed; "she is quite well again. spa is in belgium, so the germans cannot disprove the story. we arranged to meet here and to go on to brussels together. do you understand?"

"perfectly," said stewart, who was thoroughly enjoying himself. "by the way, mary," he added, "no doubt it was your shoes and stockings i found in my grip awhile ago," and he pointed to where the slippers stood side by side.

his companion stared at them for an instant in amazement, then burst into a peal of laughter.

"how ridiculous! but yes—they were intended for mine."

"how did they get into my luggage?"

"the woman who manages this inn placed them there. she is one of us."

"but what on earth for?"

"so that the police might find them when they searched your bags."

"why should they search my bags?"

"there is a certain suspicion attaching to this place. it is impossible altogether to avoid it—so it is necessary to be very careful. the landlady thought that the discovery of the slippers might, in a measure, prepare the police for the arrival of your wife."

"then she knew you were coming?"

"certainly—since last night."

"and when the man who was to meet you did not arrive, she decided that i would do?"

"i suppose so."

"but how did she know i had a passport?"

"perhaps you told her."

yes, stewart reflected, he had told her, and yet he was not altogether satisfied. when had he told her? surely it was not until he returned from his tour of the town; then there was not time——

"here is your passport," said his companion, abruptly breaking in upon his thoughts. "fold it up and place it in your pocket. and do not find it too readily when the police ask for it. you must seem not to know exactly where it is. also pack your belongings. yes, you would better include the slippers. meanwhile i shall try to make myself a little presentable," and she opened the tiny bag from which she had produced the pen.

"it seems to me," said stewart, as he proceeded to obey, "that one pair of slippers and one pair of stockings is rather scanty baggage for a lady who has been at spa for a month."

"my baggage went direct from spa to brussels," she answered from before the mirror, "in order to avoid the customs examination at the frontier. have you any other questions?"

"only the big one as to who you really are, and where i'm going to see you again after you have delivered your report—and all that."

his back was toward her as he bent over his bags, and he did not see the quick glance she cast at him.

"it is impossible to discuss that now," she said, hastily. "and i would warn you that the servant, hans, is a spy. be very careful before him—be careful always, until we are safe across the frontier. there will be spies everywhere—a false word, a false movement, and all may be lost. are you ready?"

stewart, rising from buckling the last strap, found himself confronting the most adorable girl he had ever seen. every trace of the journey had disappeared. her cheeks were glowing, her eyes were shining, and when she smiled, stewart noticed a dimple set diagonally at the corner of her mouth—a dimple evidently placed just there to invite and challenge kisses.

the admiration which flamed into his eyes was perhaps a trifle too ardent, for, looking at him steadily, she took a quick step toward him.

"we are going to be good friends, are we not?" she asked. "good comrades?"

and stewart, looking down at her, understood. she was pleading for respect; she was telling him that she trusted him; she was reminding him of the defenselessness of her girlhood, driven by hard necessity into this strange adventure. and, understanding, he reached out and caught her hand.

"yes," he agreed. "good comrades. just that!"

she gave his fingers a swift pressure.

"thank you," she said. "now we must go down. dinner will be waiting. fortunately the train is very late."

stewart, glancing at his watch, saw that it was almost six o'clock.

"you are sure it is late?" he asked.

"yes; at least an hour. we will send someone to inquire. remember what i have told you about the waiter—about everyone. not for an instant must we drop the mask, even though we may think ourselves unobserved. you will remember?"

"i will try to," stewart promised. "but don't be disappointed if you find me a poor actor. i am not in your class at all. however, if you'll give me the cue, i think i can follow it."

"i know you can. come," and she opened the door, restoring him the handkerchief which she had hung over the knob.

as they went down the stair together, stewart saw the landlady waiting anxiously at the foot. one glance at them, and her face became radiant.

"ah, you are late!" she cried, shaking a reproving finger. "but i expected it. i would not permit hans to call you. when husband and wife meet after a long separation, they do not wish to be disturbed—not even for dinner. this way! i have placed the table in the court—it is much pleasanter there when the days are so warm," and she bustled before them to a vine-shaded corner of the court, where a snowy table awaited them.

a moment later hans entered with the soup. stewart, happening to meet his glance, read the suspicion there.

"well," he said, breaking off a piece of the crisp bread, "this is almost like home, isn't it? i can't tell you, mary, how glad i am to have you back again," and he reached out and gave her hand a little squeeze. "looking so well, too. spa was evidently just the place for you."

"yes—it was very pleasant and the doctor was very kind. but i am glad to get back to you, tommy," she added, gazing at him fondly. "i could weep with joy just to look at that honest face of yours!"

stewart felt his heart skip a beat.

"you will make me conceited, if you don't take care, old lady!" he protested. "and surely i've got enough cause for conceit already, with the most beautiful woman in the world sitting across from me, telling me she loves me. don't blame me if i lose my head a little!"

the ardor in his tone brought the color into her cheeks.

"you must not look at me like that!" she reproved. "people will think we are on our moon of—our honeymoon," she corrected, hastily.

"instead of having been married four years! i wonder how john and sallie are getting along? aren't you just crazy to see the kids!"

she choked over her soup, but managed to nod mutely. then, as hans removed the plates and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, he added in a lower tone, "you must allow me the children. i find i can't be happy without them!"

"very well," she agreed, the dimple sparkling. "you have been so kind that it is impossible for me to refuse you anything!"

"there is one thing i can't understand. your english astonishes me. where did you learn to speak it so perfectly?"

"ah, that is a long story! perhaps i shall one day tell it to you—if we ever meet again."

"we must! i demand that as my reward!"

she held up a warning finger as steps sounded along the passage; but it was only the landlady bringing the wine. that good woman was exuberant—a trifle too exuberant, as stewart's companion told her with a quick glance.

the dinner proceeded from course to course. stewart had never enjoyed a meal more thoroughly. what meal, he asked himself, could possibly be commonplace, shared by such a woman?

the landlady presently dispatched hans to the station to inquire about the train, while she herself did the serving, and the two women ventured to exchange a few words concerning their instructions. stewart, listening, caught a glimpse of an intricate system of espionage extending to the very heart of germany. but he asked no questions; indeed, some instinct held him back from wishing to know more. "spy" is not a pretty word, nor is a spy's work pretty work; he refused to think of it in connection with the lovely girl opposite him.

"we shall have the police with us soon," said the landlady, in a low tone. "hans will run at once to tell them of madame's arrival."

"why do you keep him?" stewart asked.

"it is by keeping him that i avert suspicion. if there was anything wrong here, the police tell themselves, this spy of theirs would discover it. knowing him to be a spy, i am on my guard. besides, he is very stupid. but there—i will leave you. he may be back at any moment."

he came back just in time to serve the coffee, with the information that their train would not arrive until seven-thirty; then he stood watching them and listening to their talk of home and friends and plans for the future.

stewart began to be proud of his facility of invention, and of his abilities as an actor. but he had to admit that he was the merest bungler compared with his companion. her mental quickness dazzled him, her high spirits were far more exhilarating than the wine. he ended by forgetting that he was playing a part. this woman was really his wife, they were going on together——

suddenly hans stirred in his corner. heavy steps were coming toward the court along the sanded floor of the corridor. in a moment three men in spiked helmets stepped out into the fading light of the evening.

"the police to speak to you, sir," said hans, and stewart, turning, found himself looking into three faces, in which hostility and suspicion were only too apparent.