madame de la tour and michelle had lodgings in badheim village, but miss webster, after discovering how useful michelle promptly made herself at the hospital, assigned them a room in the cottage with lucy and miss pearse, in which to pass the night whenever they chose. and they often chose to remain there, so as to spend the evenings with armand, who, recovering more slowly than bob and alan, loved to have his mother and sister to beguile his lonely hours. thus it happened that michelle took part in a night’s incident soon after lucy’s and alan’s visit to franz’ cottage.

lucy was roused from the sound, dreamless sleep into which she fell after each hard day’s work by a sound of tapping against the window casement beside her cot. she stirred without opening her eyes, for the casement opened outwards, and she vaguely fancied that a branch of the tree shading the window had blown against the pane. but when the sound was sharply repeated she opened her eyes, sat up, and turning to the window saw a woman looking in at her.

she had no time for more than a quick start before the woman leaned over the sill, and, the shawl wrapped about her head and shoulders falling apart a little, in the clear moonlight lucy saw trudchen’s pale, troubled face.

“what is it? is friedrich sick again?” lucy asked hurriedly.

trudchen put a finger to her lips, glancing toward miss pearse’s cot, and spoke in an eager whisper.

“fr?ulein, forgive me for coming. i need help—and i have nowhere else to go. my little adelheid is sick now, and i have nothing—i don’t know what to do! kind fr?ulein, will you come?”

at the trembling earnestness of her voice lucy did not even stop to answer. she was out of bed in a second, but before beginning to dress she asked doubtfully, “shall i be help enough? i’d better call miss pearse.”

trudchen leaned in the window to catch her arm as she whispered imploringly, “no, no, fr?ulein, only you! otherwise franz will be still more angry.”

“all right,” lucy nodded, not stopping to argue. miss pearse slept heavily after her long hours of work and she did not stir while lucy hastily dressed herself. in ten minutes she stole from the room and met trudchen in front of the cottage.

“what is the matter with adelheid?” she asked. “what shall i take with me?”

“she has fever, fr?ulein, and she coughs a great deal. she caught cold from friedrich, and my man sent her on an errand in the forest yesterday, and she lost the path and was late coming home. she was shivering, poor little one, but now she is too warm——”

“wait here a minute,” said lucy.

she went back into the cottage, lit a candle and took from the medicine store-closet the first simple remedies that occurred to her. then, with a vivid recollection of the poverty of franz’ cottage, she crept back into her room, took one of the blankets from her cot and, stuffing it under her arm, picked up the other supplies and rejoined trudchen in the moonlit clearing.

“come on,” she said softly. “you carry the blanket, please.”

trudchen took it from her and wrapped it around her own shivering shoulders. she set the pace almost at a run across the open behind the hospital, and into the forest. it was cold, but scarcely any wind moved the tree-tops. the night frost made the snow sparkle with fresh brilliance and gave a hoary gleam to the dark pine-trunks. the moonbeams fell between the branches with a checkered silver light by which it was easy to find the way. owls hooted dismally overhead and invisible beasts scurried off into the shadows.

trudchen said not a word, absorbed in making all the speed she could. lucy followed close, suddenly remembering that she should have left a word to explain her absence. in a quarter of an hour they came out into the second clearing and approached the cottage, from which a single candle shone, bright yellow against the clear pallor of snow and moonlight.

trudchen pushed open the cottage door and entered the kitchen. red embers glowed on the hearth, before which had been drawn adelheid’s little trundle bed, and beside her on a low stool sat franz, gloomily staring into the sinking fire.

trudchen flung off her blanket and shawl, ran to adelheid and anxiously touched her hot forehead. the child lay motionless with closed eyes, huddled under the ragged blanket. but when her mother said, “see, adelheid, leibchen, the fr?ulein is here to help you,” she opened her eyes and looking vaguely up at lucy, smiled faintly and tried to speak, though a fit of coughing put an end to the few whispered words.

lucy sat down on the stool from which franz had risen, felt adelheid’s quick pulse and touched her swollen tonsils.

“hold the candle nearer?” she asked trudchen, and, shivering in the cold room, said to franz, “will you put on more wood? make it as warm as you can.”

mechanically franz obeyed, throwing on pine-boughs which sent quick flames darting up the chimney, though the room remained cold, penetrated by draughts from between the logs which made the candle-flame veer in every direction.

lucy covered adelheid with the blanket she had brought, gave her a quinine tablet, painted her throat with iodine, wound a compress around her neck and put a beer-bottle filled with hot water at her feet. franz moved about the room, silent and inscrutable as ever. trudchen ran where lucy bade her, or else knelt by adelheid’s little bed, her anxious eyes never leaving the child’s face.

adelheid had gone off into an uneasy doze which began to be troubled by feverish dreams, and presently she tried to talk, painfully in her hoarse, choked voice.

“hush, adelheid, don’t talk,” lucy coaxed her, but she paid no heed, tossing about on her narrow bed, as though living again the troubled moments whose memory possessed her little brain.

“yes, papachen, i’m going. i’ll run all the way, so don’t be angry,” she cried, panting for breath as she spoke and struggling against the cough that mastered her at every moment. franz stopped his aimless walk and stared at her. adelheid went on, now half to herself:

“it’s cold, and i don’t know where i am. oh, i wish i could see the clearing! it’s awfully big—the forest. but i’ll go, papachen, i’ll go all the way. i’ll tell him what you said. i’ll tell him you will go to the river without fail——”

“be silent, adelheid!” commanded franz, towering above the child, who shrank back at the harsh voice, staring dazedly up into her father’s face.

then eagerly she continued, “i did it, papachen. i went there, though i was tired and very cold. i told herr johann——”

“be quiet!” franz grasped adelheid’s little shoulder, speaking the stern words close to her ear.

trudchen gave a quick sob. “franz, she is ill, poor little one,” she whispered.

franz took away his heavy hand, then, as though ashamed of his roughness, he smoothed adelheid’s tumbled hair and pulled the blanket up about her chin. he cast an odd look at lucy, in which hostility at her presence contended with a kind of gratitude.

“tell me, fr?ulein,” trudchen whispered, “will she be very ill?”

“i don’t think so,” lucy reassured her. “i don’t think she has anything worse than a bad cold. how long was she out in the forest yesterday?”

“about—two hours,” said trudchen, glancing fearfully at franz.

he had left the hearth as adelheid relapsed into silence, and was looking from the window which opened on the farther side of the clearing. he paid no heed to his wife’s words for at that moment all his attention seemed taken up by something outside. he started, hesitated, then walked quickly to the front and went outdoors.

lucy was feeling of adelheid’s pulse again and trying to guess how much fever she had, for she had forgotten to bring a thermometer and there was no watch in the cottage. in a moment she was roused by hearing footsteps in the bedroom beyond, and the low sound of men’s voices. she could hear franz speaking in a cautious whisper to someone, and one of the little boys crying out at being awakened. the footsteps at once recrossed the floor to the back, and the shed-door was creakily opened, as though franz had taken his midnight visitor to its safer shelter.

exasperated at this continued mystery, lucy glanced at trudchen, who was looking with keenest anxiety toward the bedroom door.

“your husband has visitors at funny hours,” said lucy, unable to contain herself.

trudchen turned, her pale face and unhappy eyes raised to lucy in a kind of silent appeal. to lucy her face seemed to say, “i can’t explain—don’t ask me.” but in a minute she apparently felt the need of saying something, and she spoke dully, as though she had rehearsed the words.

“it is nothing, fr?ulein. franz has to sell wood far and near, and often people come in the night because they are passing through the forest. some of them do not like to be about too much by daylight. germans who fear the americans are not friendly.”

“if their business is honest they ought to know the americans won’t hurt them,” said lucy, unsatisfied not so much at trudchen’s words as at the halting manner in which they were spoken. she began to feel a new sympathy for alan’s inquisitiveness. however, without waiting for an answer which she could not believe, she added, “i’m going back now, to the hospital. i’ll come early in the morning and bring some things she needs. there’s no danger; don’t be frightened.”

in spite of everything she felt so sorry for trudchen’s evident misery that she put her hand on the german woman’s arm and did her best to comfort her.

“thank you, thank you, kind fr?ulein,” cried trudchen, following lucy to the door, gratitude throbbing in her voice. “are you not afraid to go alone through the forest? will you wait and let—franz——”

“oh, no, i’m not a bit afraid,” declared lucy, disdaining the proffered escort. “i’ll be back in a few hours, remember.”

she closed the cottage door softly after her and ran across the clearing. as she entered the forest, light steps sounded on the snow and michelle came running through the trees to meet her.

“michelle! what’s the matter?” lucy demanded.

“nothing is the matter, except with you, mon amie,” said michelle, panting. “i heard you stealing out and saw you walking across the hospital clearing with franz’ wife. i followed you.”

“what on earth for?” asked lucy, but at the same time she caught her friend’s arm in hers gratefully, for the night forest was lonely in its cold shadowy depths.

“to help you if i could. why did you go to franz’ cottage?”

“to see adelheid. she’s sick, poor little thing. and oh, michelle, someone came to see franz——”

she paused, turning back to the cottage clearing. the shed-door had swung closed again and now a tall, quick-moving figure came out into the moonlight and walked toward the far side of the clearing.

“herr johann!” michelle said in amazement.

“yes, it’s he who was in the cottage. it’s he adelheid was sent to talk with yesterday. michelle, if we could find out where he goes now!”

lucy’s suggestion was scarcely more than a spoken wish. she expected michelle’s instant disapproval, for in the old days at chateau-plessis the french girl had often dissuaded her from foolhardy exploits and counselled the patience war’s perils had taught. but now michelle seemed to feel differently. they were on german soil, it was true, but not under german rule. lucy saw her blue eyes flash in the moonlight as her glance followed herr johann on his hurried way into the forest. she caught lucy’s arm closer in hers, saying breathlessly:

“let us follow him, lucy! surely the way he goes must teach us something.”

lucy’s devouring curiosity at this fresh proof of the forest mystery swept away her lingering fear. with michelle beside her she was ready for adventure. her longing was so great to know at last the answer to the riddle, she drew michelle almost at a run through the fringe of fir-trees, along the same path by which she and alan had stalked the germans a few days before.

the girls did not say a word as they hurried around the clearing, their quick breath white in the frosty moonlight, their cautious steps making little sound upon the snow. herr johann walked fast, for when they reached the point at which he had entered the forest he had already disappeared. they paused uncertainly, with an uncomfortable feeling that from behind one of the low-branched fir-trees he might be watching them.

“he’s gone. shall we go on?” whispered lucy, suddenly weakening,

“he cannot be far ahead, though,” michelle answered in the same hushed tone. “let us go on a little.”

they crept between the trees, looking from right to left, and fancying they saw the german’s figure beside every shadowy tree-trunk, and in every shade of swaying pine-boughs against moonlit snow. there were footprints in the snow in front of them but it was hard to tell if they were new or old. lucy tried to remember the way she and alan had followed, but the forest held few landmarks to a stranger and she soon lost all definite sense of direction.

“i think we’re idiots. we can’t find him,” she said to michelle after another quarter of a mile. “yet i hate to give up.”

“shall we go a little further?” proposed michelle, doubtfully. “i thought i heard a step.”

at the same moment lucy, too, caught the slight, crunching noise of a man’s boot on the snow, a little on their right. her heart gave a quick, hard throb and all her eager curiosity returned, driving away her creeping dread of the lonely night forest.

“don’t make a sound,” she breathed in michelle’s ear.

michelle, not needing the warning, was stealing lightly as a ghost in the direction of the footsteps, which now sounded nearer, as herr johann walked quickly on, unsuspicious of intruders on his midnight journey.

the girls dared not approach too near, pausing in affright every time a twig cracked beneath their feet or an owl hooted above their heads. they kept in sound, but not in sight of their quarry. in another ten minutes the footsteps turned sharply to the left and quickened speed. lucy and michelle crossed the road along which franz had driven his cart, and went on for another mile until the forest began to thin a little, and slender birch-trees to mix with the firs and hemlocks. all at once the footsteps ahead of them stopped short.

the trackers stopped, too, trying to see the man in front of them. inch by inch they crept nearer, hiding behind broad fir-boughs and peeping out between them, until they could see the trees thinned almost to a clearing around a tiny, gabled woodland cottage, a german hunter’s lodge. at the threshold stood herr johann, fumbling in his pocket for the key which he now produced and fitted in the door.

as he turned the lock he rapped on the door with his free hand and shouted, “ludwig!”

lucy and michelle trembled, half expecting ludwig to appear from among the trees around them. herr johann lingered on the threshold, casting piercing glances about the woodland. a light which had shone in the back window of the lodge was now moved rapidly forward, flickering and dancing as though a man were running with a candle in his hand. a man appeared in the lighted doorway. herr johann’s words, as he greeted him, were lost in the closing door. silence redescended upon the forest and the two girls behind the fir-tree clutched each other and exchanged meaning glances.

“what now?” lucy whispered. “shall we stay? oh, michelle, i think perhaps after all it’s true that he’s only a hunter, with a queer taste for living in the winter forest.”

“perhaps,” said michelle doubtfully. as she spoke she suddenly pressed lucy’s arm again, pointing to the trees beyond the lodge. a third man appeared, walking quickly toward the door, dressed, like herr johann, in hunting costume and wearing, like him, an air of conscious importance.

he drew a key from his pocket and let himself in. at this evidence of a prearranged meeting lucy’s anger flared up hotly. she felt a real fury against these germans who were stealing her peace of mind and prolonging the nightmare of war and conspiracy from which she hoped to have awakened.

“michelle, let’s wait,” she said with dogged resolution. “i must see what happens.”

michelle was staring toward the door, lost in thought. “it is a rendezvous,” she said at last. “if we could only hear them.”

the small, leaded windows of the lodge had red curtains drawn across them, behind which the candle-light softly shone. “if we could creep up and listen,” lucy suggested, now in one of her rare moods of daring, when fear or anger got the better of prudence, “they couldn’t see us.”

“very well,” michelle agreed, after a moment’s hesitation.

“after all, they dare not hurt us, even if we are discovered,” said lucy, abandoning the fir-tree’s shelter.

they crept up to the lodge and crouched in the snow beneath the nearest window. voices sounded within, like two men arguing together, then herr johann, or so lucy guessed, spoke alone, as though giving orders. cries of “ja! ja!” filled the pause after he finished speaking. chairs were pushed back, and the two girls started up to flee into the shadows, but the noise of a table dragged over the floor and of chairs pulled up to it told them that some sort of inspection or consultation had commenced. the mellow light shone a little brighter, as though a second candle had been lighted, and herr johann began talking again.

lucy could not hear what he said, and, as she strained her ears, almost unconsciously she raised herself close beside the window, leaning her shoulder against the rough logs of the frame. herr johann spoke fast and steadily. for all her efforts lucy could make out no more than disjointed words:

“here you are. look well. ten miles. for you, ludwig.”

then to a question put by another voice he responded, “that’s it. day after to-morrow.”

lucy dropped to the snow again to ask of michelle, listening with equal intentness at the other side of the casement, “can you understand them?”

michelle shook her head. “very little. i think they are looking at a map or plan or something of that sort.”

they strained their ears once more. now bottles clinked and it was plain that a glass of beer was cheering the night conference. it was cold standing in the snow, with the frosty breath of the pines blown against them, and lucy and michelle shivered and moved their cold, cramped limbs in weary discouragement, as a long half hour crept by. not a single revealing sentence could they catch from the steady talk within, and the few fragments they heard told them no more than that the three men were planning something that involved time, distance, and secrecy.

when the listeners’ patience was exhausted and by glances exchanged they had agreed to retreat, the talk within suddenly died down to monosyllables, chairs grated and footsteps crossed the floor. with one accord lucy and michelle fled back into the forest’s shelter, but, scarcely a dozen yards from the door of the lodge, they hid behind the evergreen branches and breathlessly watched for the men to come out.

herr johann came first, in about ten minutes. he stepped over the threshold pulling on his gloves, his alpine cap cocked on one side, a look of satisfaction on his arrogant features. the man who had last entered the lodge followed him, and the two exchanged a handshake on the door-step, while herr johann said heartily:

“until we meet again! may all go well.”

“as well as these black times permit,” responded the other, somewhat despondently.

to this herr johann protested with commanding energy, “ach, what talk is that? we shall snatch something from ruin, if it is no more than to see those——”

the rest of the phrase was lost to lucy’s and michelle’s ears as the two men walked straight ahead of the lodge toward the forest. at the edge of the woodland they paused and shook hands again. then herr johann went on into the wood, the second man turned back, and, passing close to where the listeners were hidden, walked quickly on over the moonlit snow between the trees until his steps were lost in the forest.

at his nearness lucy and michelle had almost stopped breathing to shrink back among the fir-tree’s branches. but, once the danger past, they looked out again as a key rattled in the lodge door and the man called ludwig came out, having left all dark within. he was wrapped in a rough jacket and wore a woolen cap. his feet were covered with heavy boots and he walked stoopingly. lucy wondered if he were not the companion of herr johann’s former visit to franz’ cottage, and tried to get a glimpse of his face. but he kept it bent over the lock, which he tried again and again to make sure it was fast before he left the door-step. then, thrusting his bare hands into his pockets, he strode off, head bent, at his slow, awkward gait, and in turn disappeared into the forest.

“wait a minute and give them time to get away,” said michelle, still whispering from lingering uneasiness. “i do not at all want to meet any of them.”

lucy waited but an instant before she left her shelter and ran toward the lodge door. she felt of the strong padlock and pulled at it, but in vain.

“if their secrets are inside, that’s easy,” she said to michelle, who had followed her. “bob will come here to-morrow and break the place open. who won the war, anyhow?”

michelle smiled in the moonlight, swinging her arms across her chest, for she was cold. “if they are so simple as to leave their secrets in this lodge we have little to fear from them,” she said. “i think this place is no more than a rendezvous, well hidden from sight.”

“then why was that ludwig so anxious about locking the door?”

“he was told to lock the door, and as he is afraid of herr johann, he obeyed with great care. to look at him, he is one of those germans who does not think much for himself.”

lucy tried vainly to see through the red-curtained windows, prowling restlessly about the lodge, which was no more than a big log-cabin, with the decoration of gables and leaded windows.

“come, lucy, what more is there to see?” asked michelle, turning back to the forest.

lucy followed reluctantly, exasperated by the teasing uncertainty which made her mind swing back and forth between unanswerable questions. as she walked away from the lodge she caught sight of a slip of paper lying on the snow in front of her. she picked it up and stopped in the moonlight to study it.

“michelle, look here,” she said, her heart suddenly beating faster. “one of them dropped this. oh, how hard german is to read.”

michelle looked over her shoulder and together they began spelling out the sentences scribbled on the paper, which was a page roughly torn from a small note-book, covered with inky memoranda. it ran as follows:

saw woodcutter kraft of badheim 26

saw farmer vogel of meinz 14

saw tanner schwartz of koenigsberg 34

saw woodcutter zimmermann of feldheim 22

saw brewer helmuth hauff of weibund 11

lucy and michelle managed to decipher every word, but when they had finished they could only reread the scribbled page, at a loss to understand its meaning. what had these various trades of common interest? or common mystery?

“'saw woodcutter kraft’—that’s franz,” murmured lucy, frowning. “'saw farmer vogel’—but for what, michelle? 26—14—oh, can’t you think what he means?”

michelle shook her head. “let us look carefully around,” she proposed, “in case he let fall another piece.”

but this was quite in vain. they gave up the search in a quarter of an hour and began the journey back to the hospital, suddenly aware that they had been absent nearly two hours, and that it must be almost three o’clock in the morning.

the moon was setting when, after more than once losing the path, they reached franz’ clearing and familiar ground. franz’ cart was already harnessed beside the shed for his early start, and his dim figure moved beside it. too tired to talk over the night’s strange events, lucy and michelle hurried on to the hospital, crept into the cottage and regained their beds.

but lucy could not sleep, tired as she was. she lay staring out of the window through which trudchen had leaned to summon her for adelheid, and her restless spirit could hardly wait for daylight to tell bob all she had seen.

at the first light of dawn she was up and dressed. miss pearse woke to question her and lucy told of trudchen’s coming and of adelheid’s illness, reserving for another time the history of what followed.

“i’m going back now, miss pearse,” she explained, “for adelheid may be worse, and i promised to go.”

“wait a minute and i’ll make you some tea and toast,” said miss pearse, shivering in her thick wrapper as she lighted the alcohol lamp and filled the kettle. “why, lucy, how long were you out there last night? you look pale and tired. let me go back in your place.”

“oh, no. i’m all right. you have enough to do,” said lucy, yawning and rubbing her heavy eyes. “i need a lot of sleep. i wouldn’t be much good as a nurse.”

she drank the tea and ate the toast thankfully, and putting on her warmest clothes, walked fast all the way to franz’ cottage to stir her blood, chilled by the cold, foggy morning air. the sun was rising as she crossed the clearing. trudchen met her at the cottage door with a welcoming smile that illumined her thin, anxious face.

“adelheid is no worse, fr?ulein,” she said at once. “she has slept, but her throat still hurts her. you are good to come.”

lucy entered the cottage more willingly because she knew franz was not there. the fagots strewn about the snow showed where he had taken up his load from among the neat piles of wood that dotted the clearing.

lucy’s mind was so filled with the meeting in the forest, with the meaningless words of the lost memoranda, and with franz’ unknown but undoubted connection with all this mystery that she could hardly put her thoughts on what she had come for, or think of adelheid apart from franz and his suspected treachery. the cottage was hateful to her, even trudchen’s patient, unhappy face inspired no confidence, and it was only at sight of adelheid herself that the first touch of sympathy warmed her cold suspicion.

“fr?ulein, welcome!” whispered the child from her sore, swollen throat, and her flushed little face lighted at sight of her friend as she raised one arm shakily from beneath the blanket to catch lucy’s hand.

lucy bent over and stroked her hot forehead, forgetful of german scheming.

“see, adelheid, i have brought you some milk,” she said. “and if you are a good girl and drink it all i will give you something nicer.” she turned to trudchen at sound of the little boys’ footsteps in the bedroom. “they had better not come near their sister. go in to them, if you want to. i’ll stay a while with adelheid.” something more than usually troubled in trudchen’s eyes made her add reassuringly, “don’t be anxious about adelheid. she’s a lot better already.”

“no, no, fr?ulein, i am not afraid for her now,” declared trudchen, trying to smile, but as she spoke her voice trembled and involuntarily she cast a glance from the window across the clearing, where the snow now began to glitter beneath the first rays of the sun.

“is she afraid franz will come back and find me here, or what is it?” lucy asked herself with nervous irritation. “oh, i can’t wait to tell it all to bob!”