ds and forwards like a shuttle in his brain. But there was
no note of interrogation now.

"Berlin ... Berne ... Paris ... Cerbere ... Barcelona ... Madrid ...
Aranjuez and the world"; and with a thump the train set a firm full stop
to the sequence. Across the broad plain, meadowland and plough,
flower-garden and fruit the train thundered down to the Pyrenees. Paris
was far away now, and the sense of desolation at quitting it quite gone
from Hillyard's breast.

"Berlin ... Berne ... Paris ... Cerbere ... Barcelona ... Madrid."

Here was one of the post-roads by which Germany reached the outer world.
Others there were beyond doubt. Sweden and Rotterdam, Mexico and South
America--but here was one, and to-morrow, nay, to-day, the communication
would be cut, and Germany so much the poorer.

The train steamed into Cerbere at one o'clock of the afternoon.

"Every one must descend here, monsieur, for the examination of luggage
and passports," said the attendant.

"But I am leaving France!" cried Hillyard. "I go on into Spain. Why
should France, then, examine my luggage?"

"It is the war, monsieur."

Hillyard lifted up his hands in indignation too deep for words. He
gathered together his bag and his coat and stick, handed them to a
porter and descended. He passed into the waiting-room, and was directed
by a soldier with a fixed bayonet to take his place in the queue of
passengers. But he said quietly to the soldier:

"I would like to see M. de Cassaud, the Commissaire of Police."

Hillyard was led apart; his card was taken from him; he was ushered
instantly into an office where an elderly French officer sat in mufti
before a table. He shook Hillyard cordially by the hand.

"You pass through? I myself hope to visit Barcelona again very soon.
Jean, wait outside with monsieur's baggage," this to the porter who had
pushed in behind Hillyard. M. de Cassaud rose and closed the door. He
had looked at Hillyard's face and acted quickly.

"It is something more than compliments you want from me, monsieur. Well,
what can I do?"

"The second sleeping-car, compartments numbers 11 and 12," said Hillyard
urgently. "In the water-tank of the lavatory there is a little metal
case with letters from Berlin for Barcelona and Madrid. But wait,
monsieur!"

M. de Cassaud was already at the door.

"It is the attendant of the sleeping-car who hides them there. If he can
be called into an office quietly on some matter of routine and held