"There are two of the men. They dress exactly alike. I was suspicious of the peddler the very first time I saw him. No Frenchman--not even a French soldier--bows as I saw him bow."

"Ha!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the secret agent.

"He bows from the hips--the bow of a German military man. I--I have seen them bow before," Ruth hesitated, remembering Major Henri Marchand. "You understand?"

"But, yes, Mademoiselle," said the Frenchman, his eyes flashing.

"Then," she went on, "I saw the man--or supposedly the same man--a second time. He bowed very differently--just as an ordinary humble French peasant might bow."

"Could it not be that he forgot the second time you saw him?" queried M. Lafrane.

"I doubt it. There is something quite distinct in the air of the two men. But I understand that whichever comes to the hospital with the basket of sweets always has a word with the German officer in Hut H, Cot Twenty-four. You can easily find out about him."

"True," murmured the secret agent eagerly.

Then she told him of her walk in the gloaming and what she had seen in the garden of the peasant's cot--the two men dressed exactly alike.

One must be the half-foolish Nicko; the other must be the spy.

M. Lafrane nodded eagerly again, pursing his lips.

"Mademoiselle," he said quietly, "I will ask the good madame if you may be relieved for the day. I have a car outside--a swift car. Can you show me that cottage--Nicko's dwelling? I will bring you back immediately."

"Of a surety," she told him in his own tongue, as he had spoken.

"Wait. I will get my hat and coat. I may not know the nearest way to the place. But----"

"I am familiar with this territory," he said dryly. "We can strike it, I have no doubt, Mademoiselle. But I need you to verify the place and--perhaps--to identify the man."

"Not the spy?" she gasped.

"Nicko, the peddler."

"I see. I will be with you in the courtyard at once, Monsieur."

When she came out he was ready to step into a two-seated roadster, hung low and painted a battleship gray. A man in uniform on the front seat drove. Ruth got in, was followed by the secret agent, and they started.

She had much more in her heart and mind; but she doubted the advisability of telling M. Lafrane.

There was what she suspected about Major Henri Marchand. Could she turn suspicion toward the son of her good friend, the countess? And his brother who, it was said, had run away?

Ruth felt that she had already told much that might cause the major trouble. She did not know. She only suspected.

As for Tom Cameron's trouble--and the mystery surrounding him--she did not feel that she could speak to the secret agent about that. Tom's affairs could have nothing to do with the work of this French criminal investigator. No. She hugged to her heart all her anxiety regarding Tom.

As soon as they left the hospital courtyard Ruth found that she was traveling with a chauffeur beside whom Charlie Bragg's reckless driving was tame indeed. Besides, Charlie's lame car could not arrive at such speed as this racing type of automobile was capable of.

By looking over the back of the front seat she obtained a glimpse of the speedometer, and saw the indicator traveling from sixty to seventy.

After that she did not wish to look again. She did not want to know if they traveled faster.

The road over which they went was strange to Ruth Fielding. It was by a much shorter way Charlie Bragg had taken her to the field hospital, and over which she had returned.

They began before long to meet farmers' wagons, piled high with household goods, on which sat the strange, sad-eyed children of the war zone, or decrepit old people, often surrounded by their fowls. For even the poorest and most dest.i.tute of the French peasants manage to have "poulets."

The processions of moving people amazed Ruth. She remembered what the Dupays had said about Aunt Abelard, and she began to see that there was a general exodus being forced from the country nearer the front in this sector.

It was a fact that the people did not look happy. Now and then one of the American military police walked beside a wagon, as though he had been sent on with the movers to make sure that they kept moving.

The girl asked M. Lafrane nothing about this exodus. Perhaps he knew no more the reason for it than Ruth did.

They came to a little dale between hills at last, and in this place stood a cottage and barns--a tiny homestead, but very neat, and one that had been unmarred by the enemy. There were even fruit trees standing.

There was a huge wagon before the door, and into it must go the household goods and the family as well--if there was a family. It seemed that the wagon had just arrived, and the American soldiers with it scarcely knew what to do in this case. There was nothing packed, ready for removal, and an old woman--the only person about the farmstead--was busy feeding her flock of chickens.

"You must come, _vite_, Tante," Ruth heard the corporal in charge of the squad say to the old woman. The automobile had stopped, for the road was too narrow for it to pa.s.s the wagon.

The old woman seemed to understand the American's mixture of English and French. She shook her head with emphasis.

"But I cannot leave my pullets," she said, aghast. "They will starve.

You will go along, you Americans, and leave me alone."

"You must come; Tante," repeated the corporal, inflexibly. "You should have prepared for this. You were warned in time." Then to his men: "Go in, boys, and bring out her goods. Careful, now. Don't mess anything up."

"You cannot take my things. Your cart is already full," shrilled the old woman. "And my pullets!"

The American soldiers entered the cottage. Between her anger at them and her fear for the safety of her chickens, the old woman was in a pitiful state, indeed. Ruth looked at M. Lafrane.

"Oh, can we not do anything for her?" she asked.

"Military law knows no change--the laws of the Medes and Persians," he said grimly. "She must go, of course----"

Suddenly he sat up more stiffly beside the American girl and his hand went to his cap in salute. He even rose, and, before Ruth looked around and spied the occasion for this, she knew it must foretell the approach of an officer of importance.

Coming along the road (he had been sheltered from her gaze before by the laden wagon) was a French officer in a very brilliant uniform.

Ruth gasped aloud; she knew him at a glance.

It was Major Henri Marchand, in the full panoply of a dress uniform, although he was on foot. He acknowledged M. Lafrane's salute carelessly and did not see the girl at all. He walked directly into the yard surrounding the cottage. The corporal of the American squad was saying:

"I am sorry for you, _ma mere_. But we cannot wait now. You should have been ready for us. You have had forty-eight hours' notice."

The old countrywoman was quite enraged. She began to vilify the Americans most abominably. Ruth suddenly heard her say that the Abelards had been rooted here for generations. She refused to go for all the soldiers in the world!

Then she shrieked again as she saw the men bringing out her best bed.

Major Marchand took a hand in the matter.

"_Tante_," he said quietly, "I am sorry for you. But these men are in the right. The high authorities have said you must go. All your neighbors are going. It is for _la patrie_. These are bitter times and we must all make sacrifices. Come, now, you must depart."

Ruth wondered at his quiet, yet forceful, manner. The corporal stood back, thankful to have the disagreeable duty taken out of his hands.

And the American girl wondered, too, at the respect Monsieur Lafrane had shown this French officer. Had he saluted the uniform, or was Major Marchand a very important personage? Her brain was in a whirl of doubt.