nt on me."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Tom, but Martel did not reply except
by a shrug of the shoulders.

"Speaking of Auvergne," remarked Tom after a pause, "reminds me that I
have a special chum whose mother came from that province. She married
an American, too."

"_Vrai_?" exclaimed Martel with quickened interest. "What was her
name, _mon ami_?"

"Blest if I remember," answered Tom. "I've heard it, too, but I don't
recall it. But I'll tell you how I can find out," he went on,
rummaging in his pockets. "I've got a letter somewhere that was sent
to my chum. I got it from the headquarters post-office the day I was
captured and forgot to give it to him. The Huns tore the envelope off
when they saw me, but when they saw that it was of no importance to
them they tossed it back. I've kept it carefully ever since because
it's from some lawyer fellow in Paris telling him about his mother's
property, and I hope some time to be able to hand it to him. It's
simply a business letter with nothing private or personal in it. Here
it is," and Tom produced from his pocket a crumpled letter without an
envelope. "Let's see, the name of Frank's mother is Delatour--why,
what's the matter, Martel?" he added anxiously, as he saw the Frenchman
turn white and start back at the mention of the name.

"Nothing," answered Martel, controlling himself with difficulty. "A
little weakness--I'm not very strong, you know."

The conversation turned then in other channels, and Tom soon forgot it
in his absorption of his one idea of escape.

A week had passed when a sudden hemorrhage that attacked Martel brought
the prison doctor to his side. He shook his head after an examination.
There was no hope. It was a matter of days only, perhaps of hours. He
was heartless and perfunctory. What did it matter? The sufferer was
only a prisoner.

A little while after, Martel called Tom to him.

"I told you, _mon ami_, that it would not be long," he said with the
ghost of a smile. "And I also told you that perhaps it was a judgment
on me. Do you remember?"

"Why, yes," answered Tom reluctantly. "But perhaps you'd better not
excite yourself talking about it. I guess we've all done things we're
sorry for afterwards."

"But I committed a crime," said Martel. "I perjured myself. And I did
it for gain."

"There, there," soothed Tom, but Martel continued:

"No, I must speak. _Le bon Dieu_ has sent you to me. Listen, _mon
bra