and the unfortunate officer had opened his eyes to
other things; not so much to the deep pain of having lost her, as to
the deeper pain caused by her deception. What was the reason for it?
There surely had been no need to deceive him. Or--Mark was startled by
the thought--had it all been part of an elaborate plan to conceal her
identity in fear of her royal father's spies? Mark well believed that
this might explain something--until he thought of Father Murray. There
was no doubting the priest's words. He had said positively that the
girl was Ruth Atheson, his own niece; and Mark remembered well the
sweet face of the child in the big London church fifteen years before.
He knew that he had begun to love Ruth then, and that he could never
love anyone else. Now came the crowning cause of worry. Supposedly
abducted as the Grand Duchess, she was even now free, and attended by
her own servant, in this very train. What part in the strange play did
the false abduction have? Mark could think of no solution. He could
only let things drift. Through his worries the wheels of the train
kept saying:

"You love her--you love her--" in monotonous cadence. And he knew
that, in spite of everything, he would love her to the end.

Then his thoughts went back to the beginning, and began again the
terrible circle. Despairing of getting any sleep, and too restless to
remain in the berth, Mark determined to get up and have a quiet smoke.
He was just arising when there came a most terrific crash. The whole
car seemed to rise under him. His head struck sharply against the end
of the berth and for an instant he could not think clearly. Then he
was out. It looked as if one end of the car had been shattered. There
were shouts, and cries of pain. The corridor was filled with
frightened people scantily clad; a flagman rushed by with a lantern and
his hastily-flung words were caught and repeated:

"Collision--train ahead--wooden car crushed." Cries began to arise
outside. A red glare showed itself at the windows. The passengers
rushed out, all white with fear.

Saunders was beside Mark. "The Padre! Where is he?" he cried.

"In his berth; he may be hurt."

They drew back the curtains. Father Murray was huddled down at the end
of his section, unconscious. The blow had stunned him. Mark lifted
him up as Saunders went for water. Then they carried him out and laid
him down in the air. He opened his eyes.

"What--what