tral streak of grey had sped into outer darkness the
girl slammed the windowpanes shut and leaned against the sill enervated,
exhausted, revolted.

The room was misty with the microscopic dust from the creatures' wings; on
her palms and fingers were black stains and stains of livid orange; and
across wall and ceiling streaks and smudges of rusty colour.

She was still trembling when she washed the smears from her hands. Her
fingers were still unsteady as she smoothed out each tiny sheet of tissue
paper and laid it on her night table. Then, seated on the bed's edge
beside the lighted candle, she began to read the messages written in ink
on these frail, translucent tissue missives.

Every bit of tissue bore a message; the writing was microscopic, the
script German, the language Flemish. Slowly, with infinite pains, the
little bell-mistress of Sainte Lesse translated to herself each message as
she deciphered it.

She was trembling more than ever when she finished. Every trace of colour
had fled from her cheeks.

Then, as she sat there, struggling to keep her mind clear of the horror of
the thing, striving to understand what was to be done, there came upon her
window pane a sudden muffled drumming sound, and her frightened gaze fell
upon a Death's Head moth outside, its eyes like coals, its misty wings
beating furiously for admittance. And around its body was tied a cylinder
of white tissue.

But the girl needed no more evidence. The wretched youth in the room
overhead had already sealed his own doom with any one of these tissue
cylinders. Better for him if the hemorrhage had slain him. Now a firing
squad must do that much for him.

Yet, even still, the girl hesitated, almost incredulous, trying to
comprehend the monstrous grotesquerie of the abominable plot.

Intuition pointed to the truth; logic proved it; somewhere in the German
trenches a comrade of this spy was awaiting these messages with a caged
Death's Head female as the bait--a living loadstone wearing the terrific
emblems of death--an unfailing magnet to draw the skull-bearing messengers
for miles--had it not been that a _nearer magnet deflected them in their
flight!_

That was it! That was what the miserable youth upstairs had not counted
on. Chance had ruined him; destiny had sent Madam Death into the room
below him to draw, with her macabre charms, every ardent winged messenger
which he liberated from his bedroom window.

The subtle effluvia permeat