an extraordinary circumstance, Liebchen. Our people in Chicago sent us in January one Mathilde Igel, and now they have ascertained beyond any possible doubt that two days before they dispatched Mathilde to Paris, she has been interned in America. Who, then, have our Chicago people sent to us and advised us to employ—who is this Cynthia Gail? You would not need to be pretty to pique curiosity now, would you, Liebchen?"
He petted her with mocking protectiveness as he spoke; and Ruth, recoiling, at least had gained from him explanation of much about which she had been uncertain. The Germans in Chicago, plainly, had made such a mistake as she had supposed and had been long in discovering it; longer, perhaps, in communicating knowledge of it to Paris. But it had arrived in time to destroy her. Herr Baron gratuitously continued his explanation.
"So I took it upon me, myself, to have a squint at our Cynthia and I got my good look at you, Liebchen! What a pretty girl—how do you Americans say it? A dazzler; indeed, a dazzler! What a needless pity to add you to the total of destruction, already too great—you so young and innocent and maidenly? I have never been in favor of women's intrusion in war; no, it is man's business. For women, the solacing of those who fight—whether with sword or by their wits behind the enemy's lines! Not so, Liebchen?"
It was broad daylight—a sunny, mild morning amid wooded hills and vales with clear, rushing streams, with the Rhine Valley lost now to the west as the railroad swept more closely to the Black Forest. The train was slowing and, as it came to halt before a little countryside station,
