ld breathless
his readers in every corner of the globe, and describing criminals and
life's undercurrents with such fidelity that even criminals themselves
had expressed wonder as to how and whence he obtained his accurate
information.

But the public were in ignorance that, in his character of Mr. Maltwood,
he pursued a strange profession, one which was fraught with more romance
and excitement than any other calling a man could adopt. In comparison
with his life that of a detective was really a tame one; while such
success had he obtained that in a certain important official circle in
London he was held in highest esteem and frequently called into
consultation.

Walter Fetherston, the quiet, reticent novelist, was entirely different
from the gay, devil-may-care Maltwood, the accomplished linguist,
thorough-going cosmopolitan and constant traveller, the easy-going man of
means known in society in every European capital.

Because of this his few friends who were aware of his dual personality
were puzzled.

At the girl's side he strode on along the road which still led through
the wood, the road over which every evening rumbled the old
post-diligence on its way through the quaint old town of Etain to the
railway at Spincourt. On that very road a battalion of Uhlans had been
annihilated almost to a man at the outbreak of the Great War.

Every metre they trod was historic ground--ground which had been
contested against the legions of the Crown Prince's army.

For some time neither spoke. At last Walter asked: "Your stepfather has
been up to the fortress with Monsieur Le Pontois, I suppose?"

"Yes, once or twice," was her reply, eager to change the subject. "Of
course, to a soldier, fortifications and suchlike things are always of
interest."

"I saw them walking up to the fortress together the other day," he
remarked with a casual air.

"What?" she asked quickly. "Have you been here before?"

"Once," he laughed. "I came over from Commercy and spent the day in your
vicinity in the hope that I might perhaps meet you alone accidentally."

He did not tell her that he had watched her shopping with Madame Le
Pontois, or that he had spent several days at a small _auberge_ at the
tiny village of Marcheville-en-Woevre, only two miles distant.

"I had no idea of that," she replied, her face flushing slightly.

"When do you return to London?" he asked.

"I hardly know. Certainly not before next Thursday, as we have ama