rontier in cunning cipher. It told of artillery
concentrations three days old; it told only what the aeroplanes had
already seen; it told what the Grays had done but nothing of what they
intended to do.

When word of Feller's defection came, Lanstron realized for the first
time by Partow's manner that the old chief of staff, with all his
deprecation of the telephone scheme as chimerical, had grounded a hope
on it.

"There was the chance that we might know--so vital to the defence--what
they were going to do before and not after the attack," he said.

Yet the story of how Feller yielded to the temptation of the automatic
had made the nostrils of the old war-horse quiver with a dramatic
breath, and instead of the command of a battery of guns, which Lanstron
had promised, the chief made it a battalion. He had drawn down his brows
when he heard that Marta had asked that the wire be left intact; he had
shot a shrewd, questioning glance at Lanstron and then beat a tattoo on
the table and half grinned as he grumbled under his breath:

"She is afraid of being lonesome! No harm done!" A week had passed since
the Grays had taken the Galland house, and still no word from Marta. The
ring of the bell brought Lanstron to his feet with a startled, boyish
bound.

"Very springy, that tendon of Achilles!" muttered Partow. "And, my boy,
take care, take care!" he called suddenly in his sonorous voice, as vast
and billowy as his body. "Take care! She might unwittingly repeat
something you said--and hold on!" He was amazingly light and vigorous on
his feet as he rose and hurried after Lanstron with the quick, short
steps of active adiposity. "She may have seen or heard something.
Ask--ask what is the spirit of the staff, of the soldiers who have
fought? What is the truth about their losses? What--" He broke off at
the door of Lanstron's bedroom. Lanstron had flung aside a bathrobe that
covered a panel door in the closet and already had the receiver in his
hand. "But you know what to ask!" concluded Partow. A flush of
embarrassment crept into the pasty cheeks and a sparkle into his fine
old eyes as he withdrew to acquit himself of being an eavesdropper.

It was Marta's voice and yet not Marta's, this voice that beat in
nervous waves over the wire.

"Lanny--yes, I, Lanny! You were right. Westerling planned to make war
deliberately to satisfy his ambition. He told me so. The first general
attack on the first line of defence is to-night.