As Stewart set down his bags, still swearing softly to himself, he heard behind him the sound of a .  
"There! there!" he said. "We'll soon be all right!" and as he turned swiftly and reached out his arms to grope for her, it seemed to him that she walked right into them.
 
"Oh, oh!" she moaned, and pressed close against him. "What will they do to us? Why have they placed us here?" And then he felt her lips against his ear. "Be careful!" she whispered in the merest breath. "There is an open window!"
 
Stewart's heart was thrilling. What a woman! What an actress! Well, he would prove that he, too, could play a part.
 
"They will do nothing to us, dear," he answered, patting her shoulder. "They will not dare to harm us! Remember, we are Americans!"
 
"But—but why should they place us here?"
 
"I don't know—I suppose they have to be careful. I'll appeal to our ambassador in the morning. He'll soon bring them to their senses. So don't worry!"
 
"But it is so dark!" she complained. "And I am so tired. Can we not seat ourselves somewhere?"
 
"We can sit on our bags," said Stewart. "Wait!" In a moment he had found them and placed them one upon the other. "There you are. Now let us see what sort of a place we've come to."
 
He got out his match-box and struck a light. The first almost blinded him; then, holding the match above his head, he saw they were in a brick , about twenty feet square. There was a single small window, without glass but heavily barred. The place was empty, save for a pile of barrels against one end.
 
"It's a store-house of some kind," he said, and then he sharply. "Gasoline! I'd better not strike any more matches."
 
He sat down beside her and for some moments they were silent. Almost unconsciously, his arm found its way about her waist. She did not draw away.
 
"Do you suppose they will keep us here all night?" she asked, at last.
 
"Heaven knows! They seem capable of any !"
 
And then again he felt her lips against his ear.
 
"We must destroy your ticket," she breathed. "Can you find it in the dark?"
 
"I think so." He in an inside pocket and drew it out. "Here it is."
 
Her groping hand found his and took the ticket.
 
"Now talk to me," she said.
 
Stewart talked at , wondering how she intended to destroy the ticket. Once he fancied he heard the sound of soft tearing; and once, when she in answer to a question, her voice seemed strange and .
 
"It is done," she whispered at last. "Place these in your pocket and continue talking."
 
Her groping hand touched his and he found himself grasping two minute objects whose nature he could not guess, until, feeling them carefully, he found them to be the small wire which had held the of the ticket together. He slipped them into his waistcoat pocket; and then, as he began to tell her about the women from Philadelphia and the journey from Cologne, he was conscious that she was no longer beside him. But at the end of a moment she was back again.
 
"That girl was right," she said. "Women are very silly to try to travel about Europe without a man as escort. Consider how I should feel at this moment if I did not have you!"
 
But in spite of themselves, the conversation lagged; and they finally sat silent.
 
How strange a thing was chance, Stewart pondered. Here was he who, until to-day, had seen his life stretching before him ordered and , cast suddenly into the midst of strange adventure. Here was this girl, whom he had known for only a few hours and yet seemed to have known for years—whom he certainly knew better than he had ever known any other woman. There was Bloem—he had been cast into adventure, too. Was he outside somewhere, among all those thousands, gazing up at the stars and wondering at Fate? And the thousands themselves—the millions at this moment into the armies of Europe—to what adventure were they being hurried!
 
A quick step came along the platform and stopped at the door; there was the snap of a lock, and the door swung open.
 
"You will come out," said a voice in English.
 
Against the lights of the station, Stewart saw outlined the figure of a man in uniform. He rose wearily.
 
"Come, dear," he said, and helped her to her feet; "it seems we are to go somewhere else." Then he looked down at the heavy bags. "I can't carry those things all over creation," he said; "what's more, I won't."
 
"I will attend to that," said the stranger, and put a whistle to his lips and blew a blast. Two men came running up. "You will take those bags," he ordered. "Follow me," he added to Stewart.
 
They followed him along the platform, crossed the track to another, and came at last to a great empty shed with a low table running along one side. The men placed the bags upon this table and withdrew.
 
"I shall have to search them," said the officer. "Are they locked?"
 
He stood in the glare of a lamp hanging from the rafters, and for the first time, Stewart saw his face. The man smiled at his start of surprise.
 
"I see you recognize me," he said. "Yes—I was in your coming from Cologne. We will speak of that later. Are your bags locked?"
 
"No," said Stewart.
 
He watched with listlessness as the officer the and raised the lids. But his mind was very busy. Had he said anything during that ride from Cologne which he would now have reason to regret? Had he intimated that he was unmarried? He struggled to recall the conversation, sentence by sentence, but could remember nothing that was actually incriminating. And yet, in mentioning his intended stop at Aix-la-Chapelle, he had not added that he was to meet his wife there, and he had made a tentative arrangement to see Miss Field again in Brussels. The talk, in other words, had been carried on from the angle of a bachelor with no one to think of but himself, and not from that of a married man with a wife to consider.
 
It was certainly unfortunate that the man who had happened to overhear that conversation should be the one here to examine his luggage. How well did he know English? Was he acute enough to catch the implications of the conversation, or would a disregard of one's wife seem natural to his Teutonic mind? Stewart glanced at him ; and then his attention was suddenly caught and held by the extreme care with which the man examined the contents of the bags.
 
He shook out each garment, put his hand in every pocket, examined the with his finger-tips, ripped open one where he detected some unusual thickness only to discover a strip of reënforcement, opened and read carefully every letter and paper, turned the Baedeker page by page to be sure that nothing lay between them. He paused over the satin shoes and stockings, but put them down finally without comment. At last the bags were empty, and, taking up his knife, he proceeded to rip open the linings and look under them. Then, with equal care, he returned each article to its place, examining it a second time with the same intent .
 
All this took time, and long before it was over, Stewart and his companion had dropped upon a bench which ran along the wall opposite the table. Stewart was so weary that he began to feel that nothing mattered very much, and he could see that the girl also was deadly tired. But at last the search was finished and the bags closed and .
 
"I should like to see the small bag which Madame carries on her arm," said the officer, and, without a word, the girl held it out to him.
 
He examined its contents with a minuteness almost . Nothing was too small, too unimportant, to escape the closest attention. Stewart, marveling at this exhibition of German thoroughness, watched him through half-closed eyes, his heart beating a little faster. Would he find some clew, some evidence of treachery?
 
There were some handkerchiefs in the bag, and some small toilet articles; a cake of soap in a case, a box of powder, a small purse containing some gold and silver, a postcard, two or three letters, and some trivial and ends such as every woman carries about with her. The searcher unfolded each of the handkerchiefs and held it against the light, he cut the cake of soap into minute fragments; he emptied the box of powder and ran an inquiring finger through its contents; he turned out the purse and looked at every coin it contained; then he sat down and read slowly and gravely the postcard and each of the letters and examined their postmarks, and finally he took one of the closely-written sheets, mounted on his chair, and held the sheet close against the chimney of the lamp until it was smoking with the heat, examining it with minute attention as though he rather expected to make some interesting discovery. As a finish to his researches, he ripped open the of the bag and turned it inside out.
 
"Where did you buy this bag, madame?" he asked.
 
"In Paris, a month ago."
 
"These handkerchiefs are also French."
 
"Certainly. French handkerchiefs are the best in the world."
 
He compressed his lips and looked at her.
 
"And that is a French hat," he went on.
 
"Good heavens!" cried the girl. "One would think I was passing the customs at New York. Certainly it is French. So is my gown—so are my stockings—so is my underwear. For what else does an American woman come abroad?"
 
He looked at her shoes. She saw his glance and understood it.
 
"No; my shoes are American. The French do not know how to make shoes."
 
"But the are French."
 
"Which slippers?"
 
"The ones in your husband's bag."
 
She turned laughingly to Stewart.
 
"Have you been carrying a pair of my slippers all around Europe, Tommy?" she asked. "How did that happen?"
 
"I don't know. I packed in rather a hurry," answered Stewart, sheepishly.
 
"Where is the remainder of your baggage, madame?" asked the officer.
 
"At Brussels—at least, I hope so. I sent it there direct from Spa."
 
"Why did you do that?"
 
"In order to avoid the examination at the frontier."
 
"Why did not you yourself go direct to Brussels?"
 
"I wished to see my husband. I had not seen him for almost a month," and she cast Stewart a fond smile.
 
"Have you been recently married?"
 
"We have been married four years," the girl informed him, with dignity.
 
Stewart started to give some additional information about the family, but restrained himself.
 
The looked at them both keenly for a moment, scratching his bearded chin reflectively. Then he took a rapid turn up and down the shed, his brow in thought.
 
"I shall have to ask you both to disrobe," he said, at last, and as Stewart started to his feet in hot protest, he added, quickly, "I have a woman who will disrobe Madame."
 
"But this is an !" protested Stewart, his face . "This lady is my wife—I won't stand by and see her insulted. I warn you that you are making a serious mistake."
 
"She shall not be insulted. Besides, it is necessary."
 
"I don't see it."
 
"That is for me to decide," said the other bluntly, and he put his whistle to his lips and blew two blasts.
 
A door at the farther end of the shed opened and a woman entered. She was a matronly creature with a kind face, and she smiled encouragingly at the shrinking girl.
 
"Frau Ritter," said the officer in German, "you will take this lady into the office and disrobe her. Bring her clothing to me here—all of it."
 
Again Stewart started to protest, but the officer silenced him with a gesture.
 
"It is useless to attempt resistance," he said, sharply. "I must do my duty—by force if necessary. It will be much wiser to obey quietly."
 
The girl rose to her feet, evidently by the appearance of the woman.
 
"Do not worry, Tommy," she said. "It will be all right. It is of no use to argue with these people. There is nothing to do but submit."
 
"So it seems," Stewart muttered, and watched her until she disappeared through the door.
 
"Now, sir," said the officer, sharply, "your clothes."
 
Crimson with anger and , Stewart handed them over piece by piece, saw pockets turned out, linings loosened here and there, the heels of his shoes examined, his fountain-pen unscrewed and emptied of its ink. At last he stood naked under the light, feeling helpless as a baby.
 
"Well, I hope you are satisfied," he said, .
 
With a nod, the officer handed him back his underwear.
 
"I will keep these for the moment," he said, indicating the little pile of things taken from the pockets. "You may dress. Your clothes, at least, are American!"
 
As he spoke, the woman entered from the farther door, with a bundle of clothing in her arms. Stewart turned hastily away, struggling into his trousers as rapidly as he could, and cursing the careless immodesty of these people. he laced his shoes, and put on his collar, noting wrathfully that it was soiled. He kept his back to the man at the table—he felt that it would be indecent to watch him those intimate articles of apparel.
 
"You have examined her hair?" he heard the man ask.
 
"Yes, Excellency."
 
"Very well; you may take these back."
 
Not until he heard the door close behind her did Stewart turn around. The officer was a cigarette. The careless unconcern of the act added new fuel to the American's .
 
"Perhaps you will tell me the meaning of all this?" he demanded. "Why should my wife and I be compelled to submit to these ?"
 
"We are looking for a spy," replied the other , and addressed himself to an examination of the things he had taken from Stewart's pockets—his penknife, his watch, the contents of his purse, the papers in his pocket-book. He even placed a finger for an instant on the two tiny metal clips which had come from the Cook ticket. But to reconstruct their use was evidently too great a task even for a German police agent, for he passed on almost at once to something else. "Very good," he said at last, pushed the pile toward its owner, and opened the passport, which he had laid to one side.
 
"That passport will tell you that I am not a spy," said Stewart, putting his things angrily back into his pockets. "That, it seems to me, should be sufficient."
 
"As far as you are concerned, it is sufficient," said the other. "One can see at a glance that you are an American. But the appearance of Madame is distinctly French."
 
"Americans are of every race," Stewart out. "I have seen many who look far more German than you do."
 
"That is true; but it so happens that the spy we are looking for is a woman. I cannot tell you more, except that it is she does not escape."
 
"And you suspect my wife?" Stewart demanded. "But that is absurd!"
 
He was proud of the fact that he had managed to maintain unaltered his expression of indignation, for a sudden chill had run down his at the other's careless words. Evidently the situation was far more dangerous than he had suspected! Then he was conscious that his hands were trembling slightly, and thrust them quickly into his pockets.
 
"The fact that she joined you at Aachen seemed most suspicious," the inspector pointed out. "I do not remember that you mentioned her during your conversation with the ladies in the train."
 
"Certainly not. Why should I have mentioned her?"
 
"There was perhaps no reason for doing so," the inspector admitted. "Nevertheless, it seemed to us unusual that she should have come back from Spa to Aachen to meet you, when she might, so much more conveniently, have gone direct to Brussels and awaited you there."
 
"She has explained why we made that arrangement."
 
"Yes," and through half-closed eyes he watched the smoke from his cigarette circle toward the lamp. " affection—most admirable, I am sure! It is unfortunate that Madame's appearance should answer so closely to that of the woman for whom we are searching. It was also unfortunate that you should have met at the Kölner Hof. That hotel has not a good reputation—it is frequented by too many French whose business is not quite clear to us. How did it happen that you went there?"
 
"Why," retorted Stewart hotly, glad of the chance to return one of the many blows which had been rained upon him, "one of your own men recommended it."
 
"One of my own men? I do not understand," and the officer looked at him .
 
"At least one of the police. He came to me at the Hotel at Cologne to examine my passport. He asked me where I was going from Cologne, and I told him to Aix-la-Chapelle. He asked at which hotel I was going to stay, and I said I did not know. He said he would like to have that information for his report, and added that the Kölner Hof was near the station and very clean and comfortable. I certainly found it so."
 
The officer was listening with intentness.
 
"Why were you not at the station to meet your wife?" he asked.
 
"I did not know when she would arrive; I was told that the trains were all running irregularly," answered Stewart, prouder of his ability to lie well and quickly than he had ever been of anything else in his life.
 
"But how did she know at which hotel to find you?" inquired the officer, and the ash from his cigarette.
 
Stewart distinctly felt his heart turn over as he saw the abyss at his feet. How would she have known? How could she have known? What would he have done if he had really had a wife waiting at Spa? These questions flashed through his head like lightning.
 
"Why, I telegraphed her, of course," he said; "and to make assurance doubly sure, I sent her a postcard." And then his heart fell again, for he realized that the police had only to wire to Cologne to prove that no such message had been filed there.
 
But the officer tossed away his cigarette with a little gesture of satisfaction.
 
"It was well you took the latter precaution, Mr. Stewart," he said, and Stewart detected a subtle change in his tone—it was less cold, more friendly. "The wires were closed last night to any but official business, and your message could not possibly have got through. I am surprised that it was accepted."
 
"I gave it to the porter at the hotel," Stewart explained. "Perhaps it wasn't accepted, and he just kept the money."
 
"That may be. But your postcard got through, as you no doubt know. It evidently caught the night mail and was delivered to Madame this morning."
 
"Really," Stewart, wondering if this was another trap, "I didn't know—I didn't think to ask——"
 
"Luckily Madame brought it with her in her hand-bag," explained the other. "It offers a convincing of your story—the more convincing perhaps since you seem surprised that she preserved it. Ah, here she is now," and he arose as the door opened and the girl came in. "Will you not sit down, madame?" he went on, . "I pray that both of you will accept my sincere apologies for the inconvenience I have caused you. Believe me, it was one of war's necessities."
 
The girl glanced at the speaker curiously, his tone was so warm, so full of friendship; then she glanced at Stewart——
 
And Stewart, that glance, was suddenly conscious that his mouth was open and his eyes staring and his whole attitude that of a man struck dumb by . Hastily he over to re-tie a . But really, he told himself, he could not be blamed for being disconcerted—anybody would be disconcerted to be told suddenly that his most desperate lie was true! But how could it be true? How could there be any such postcard as the German had described? Was it just another trap?
 
"We understand, of course, that you were merely doing your duty," the girl's voice was saying; "what seemed unfair was that we should be the victims. Do I understand that—that you no longer suspect us?"
 
"Absolutely not; and I apologize for my suspicions."
 
"Then we are at liberty to proceed?"
 
"You cannot in any event proceed to-night. I will pass you in the morning. And I hope you will not think that any discourtesy was intended to you as Americans. Germany is most anxious to retain the good-will of America. It will mean much to us in this struggle."
 
"Most Americans are rather over Alsace-Lorraine," said Stewart, who had recovered his composure, and he fished for a cigar and offered one to the officer, who accepted it with a bow of thanks.
 
"That is because they do not understand," said the other, quickly. "Alsace and Lorraine belong of right to Germany. Of that there can be no question."
 
"But haven't you been rather harsh with them?"
 
"We have not been harsh enough. Had we done our duty, we would have stamped out without mercy the treason which is still in many parts of those provinces. Instead, we have hesitated, we have temporized—and now, too late, we realize our mistake. The spy for whom we are searching at this moment comes from Strassburg."
 
Stewart started at the words; but the girl threw back her head and burst into delighted laughter.
 
"So you took us for spies!" she cried. "What a tale to tell, Tommy, when we get home!"
 
"There is but one spy, madame," said the officer; "a woman young and beautiful like yourself—accomplished, , a great , a fine musician, of good family, and moving in the highest society in Alsace. She was on terms of with many of our officers; they did not hesitate to talk freely to her. Some of them, fascinated by her wit and beauty and wishing to prove their own importance, told her things which they had no right to tell. More than that, at the last moment she succeeded in getting possession for a time of certain documents. But she had gone too far—she was suspected—she fled—and she has not yet been captured. But she cannot escape—we cannot permit her to escape. We know that she is still somewhere in Germany, and we have made it impossible for her to pass the frontier. A person who knows her is to be stationed at every post, and no woman will be permitted to pass until he has seen her. The man to be stationed here will arrive from Strassburg in an hour. As a final precaution, madame," he added, smiling, "and because my orders are most precise and , I shall ask you and your husband to remain here at Herbesthal until morning. As I have said, you could not, in any event, go on to-night, for the frontier is closed. In the morning, I will ask my man from Strassburg to look at you, and will then provide you with a safe-conduct, and see that every possible facility is given you to get safely across the frontier."
 
"Thank you," she said; "you are most kind. That is why you are keeping all those people shut up in the station?"
 
"Yes, madame. They cannot pass until my man has seen them."
 
"But you are not searching them?"
 
"No; with most of them, the is a matter of obeying orders—one can tell their nationality at a glance. But to look at you, madame, I should never have supposed you to be an American—I should have supposed you to be French."
 
"My grandmother was French," explained the girl, composedly, "and I am said to resemble her very closely. I must also warn you that my sympathies are French."
 
The officer his shoulders with a smile.
 
"That is a great misfortune. Perhaps when you see how our army fights, we may claim some of your sympathy—or, at least, your ."
 
"It will fight well, then?"
 
"It will fight so well—it will prove so irresistible—that our General Staff has been able to prepare in advance the schedule for the entire campaign. This is the first of August. On the fifth we shall capture Lille, on the ninth we shall cross the Marne, and on the eleventh we shall enter Paris. On the evening of the twelfth, the Emperor will dine the General Staff at the Ritz."
 
Stewart stared in astonishment, not knowing whether to laugh or to be impressed. But there was no shadow of a smile on the bearded face of the speaker.
 
"You are not in earnest!" Stewart protested.
 
" in earnest. We know where we shall be at every hour of every day. There are at present living in France many Germans who are reservists in our army. Not one of these has been required to return to Germany. On the contrary, each of them has been instructed to report at a point near his place of residence at a certain hour of a certain day, where he will find his awaiting him. For example, all German reservists living at Lille, or in the neighborhood, will report at noon of Wednesday next in the Place de la République in front of the prefecture, where the German administration will have been installed during the morning."
 
Stewart opened his lips to say something, but no words came. He felt and overborne.
 
But it was not at Stewart the officer was looking so , it was at the girl. Perhaps he also, yielding to a subtle , was telling things he had no right to tell in order to prove his importance!
 
The girl returned his gaze with a look of astonishment and admiration.
 
"How wonderful!" she breathed. "And it is really true?"
 
"True in every detail, madame."
 
"But this Lille of which you have spoken—is it a ?"
 
"A great fortress, madame."
 
"Will it not resist?"
 
"Not for long—perhaps not at all. If it does resist, it will fall like a house of cards. The whole world will be astonished, madame, when it learns the details of that action. We have a great surprise in store for our enemies!"
 
Stewart, glancing at his companion, with alarm the flash of excitement in her eyes. Would she push her questioning too far—would she be indiscreet; but the next instant he was reassured.
 
"It is most fascinating,—this puzzle!" she laughed. "I shall watch the papers for the fall of Lille. But I am very ignorant—I do not even know where Lille is."
 
"It is in the northwest corner of France, madame, just south of the Belgian frontier."
 
The girl looked at him perplexedly.
 
"But how can you reach it," she asked, slowly, "without crossing Belgium?"
 
"We cannot reach it without crossing Belgium."
 
From the expression of her face, she might have been a child shyly an indulgent senior.
 
"I know I am stupid," she , "but it seems to me I have read somewhere—perhaps in Baedeker—that all the Powers had agreed that Belgium should always be a neutral country."
 
"So they did—Germany as well as the others. But such agreements are mere of paper. The first blast of war blows them away. France has built along her eastern border a great chain of forts which are almost impregnable. Therefore it is necessary for us to strike her from the north through Belgium. Regretfully, but none the less firmly, we have warned Belgium to stand aside."
 
"Will she stand aside?"
 
The officer shrugged his shoulders.
 
"She must, or risk annihilation. She will not dare oppose us. If she does, we shall crush her into the dust. She will belong to us, and we will take her. Moreover, we shall not repeat the mistake we made in Alsace-Lorraine. There will be no treason in Belgium!"
 
Stewart felt a little shiver of disgust sweep over him. So this was the German attitude—treaties, solemn agreements, these were merely "scraps of paper" not worth a second thought; a small nation had no rights worth considering, since it lacked the power to defend them. Should it try to do so, it would "risk annihilation!"
 
He did not feel that he could trust himself to talk any longer, and rose suddenly to his feet.
 
"What are we going to do to-night?" he asked. "Not sit here in this shed, surely!"
 
"Certainly not," and the officer rose too. "I have secured a for you with the woman who searched Madame. You will find it clean and comfortable, though by no means ."
 
"That is very kind of you," said Stewart, with a memory of the he had seen crowded into the waiting-room. And then he looked at his luggage. "I hope it isn't far," he added. "I've carried those bags about a thousand miles to-day."
 
"It is but a step—but I will have a man carry your bags. Here is your passport, sir, and again permit me to assure you of my regret. You also, madame!" and he bowed ceremoniously above her fingers.
 
Three minutes later, Stewart and his companion were walking down the platform beside the pleasant-faced woman, who away in German, while a porter followed with the bags. As they passed the station, they could see that it was still jammed with a motley crowd, while a guard of soldiers thrown around it prevented anyone leaving or entering.
 
"How fortunate that we have escaped that!" said Stewart. "Even at the price of being searched!"
 
"This way, sir," said the woman, in German, and motioned off into the darkness to the right.
 
They made their way across a net-work of tracks, which seemed to Stewart strangely complicated and extensive for a small frontier station, and then emerged into a narrow, street, bordered by mean little houses. In front of one of these the woman stopped and unlocked the door with an enormous key. The porter set the bags inside, received his tip, and withdrew, while their hostess struck a match and lighted a candle, disclosing a narrow hall running from the front door back through the house.
 
"You will sleep here, sir," she said, and opened a door to the left.
 
They stepped through, in to her gesture, and found themselves in a fair-sized room, poorly furnished and a little musty from disuse, but evidently clean. Their hostess hastened to open the window and to light another candle. Then she brought in Stewart's bags.
 
"You will find water there," and she pointed to the on the wash-stand. "I cannot give you hot water to-night—there is no fire. Will these towels be sufficient? Yes? Is there anything else? No? Then good-night, sir, and you also, my lady."
 
"Good-night," they answered; and for a moment after the door closed, stood staring at it as though hypnotized.
 
Then the girl stepped to the window and pulled together the curtains of white cotton. As she turned back into the room, Stewart saw that her face was livid.
 
His eyes asked the question which he did not dare speak aloud.
 
She drew him back into the corner and put her lips close against his ear.
 
"There is a guard outside," she whispered. "We must be very careful. We are prisoners still."
 
As Stewart stood staring, she took off her hat and tossed it on a chair.
 
"How tired I am!" she said, yawning heavily, and turning back to the window, she began to take down her hair.