d through which we were speeding; life was in the high gear to-day.
The car purred beneath us like a splendid, harnessed tiger; the spring
air was fresh and fragrant, the country charming, with here a forest,
there a valley, farther off the tiled, colored roofs of some little
town. Our road, like a white ribbon, wound itself out endlessly between
stone walls or brown fields. In my content I forgot food and such
prosaic details till I noticed that the girl looked pale.

"I say," I exclaimed remorsefully: "we've been omitting rolls and
coffee! I'm going to get you some at the first town we pass."

"We are coming to a town now, to Le Moreau." She was looking anxious.

"Yes? I'm afraid I don't place it exactly. Ought I to?"

"It is the first town in the war zone. And--and our road passes through
it."

"Oh!" I was enlightened. "Then they will probably ask to see our papers
at the _octroi_?"

"Yes."

The car was eating up the smooth white road; I could see the little
_octroi_ building at the town boundary-line, and a group of gendarmes in
readiness close by. It was a critical moment. Miss Falconer, I
recalled, had said she could get through to Carrefonds; but glittering
generalities were not likely to convince these sentries; one needed
safe-conducts, passes, identity cards, and such concrete aids. She
couldn't give a reasonable account of herself, I felt quite certain; and
even if she did, how was she to account for me?

As I brought the car to a standstill, my conscience clamored, and my
costume seemed to shriek incongruity from every seam. In this dilemma
I trusted to sheer blind luck--a rather thrilling business. As a
gray-headed sergeant stepped forward to welcome us, I looked him
unfalteringly in the eye, though I wondered if he would not say:

"Monsieur, kindly remove that childish travesty with which you are
trying to impose on justice. We know all about you. Your name is
Devereux Bayne. You are a German agent and intriguer; you have smuggled
papers; you have murdered a man and concealed his body. Unless you can
give a satisfactory explanation of all your actions since leaving New
York, your last hour has arrived!"

What he really said was:

"Mademoiselle's papers?" He spoke quite amiably, a catlike pretense, no
doubt.

Miss Falconer was no longer looking anxious. Her hands were steady; she
was even smiling as she produced two neat little packets that, on being
unfolded, proved to have all the air of pe