reatened to do.
Well," with a deep sigh, "you did find her. It was an unfriendly act,
mamselle."

"They told us in Ostend that the husband of Clarette is a condemned spy,
one who served both sides and proved false to each. The husband of
Clarette is doomed to suffer death at the hands of the Germans or the
Belgians, if either is able to discover him."

Maurie removed his cap and scratched the hair over his left ear
reflectively.

"Ah, yes, the blacksmith!" said he. "I suspected that blacksmith fellow
was not reliable."

"How many husbands has Clarette?"

"With the blacksmith, there are two of us," answered Maurie, brightly.
"Doubtless there would be more if anything happened to me, for Clarette
is very fascinating. When she divorced the blacksmith he was
disconsolate, and threatened vengeance; so her life is quite occupied in
avoiding her first husband and keeping track of her second, who is too
kind-hearted to threaten her as the blacksmith did. I really admire
Clarette--at a distance. She is positively charming when her mind is
free from worry--and the children are asleep."

"Then you think," said Ajo, who was standing by and listening to
Maurie's labored explanations, "that it is the blacksmith who is
condemned as a spy, and not yourself?"

"I am quite sure of it. Am I not here, driving your ambulance and going
boldly among the officers? If it is Jakob Maurie they wish, he is at
hand to be arrested."

"But you are not Jakob Maurie."

The Belgian gave a start, but instantly recovering he answered with a
smile:

"Then I must have mistaken my identity, monsieur. Perhaps you will tell
me who I am?"

"Your wife called you 'Henri,'" said Patsy.

"Ah, yes; a pet name. I believe the blacksmith is named Henri, and poor
Clarette is so accustomed to it that she calls me Henri when she wishes
to be affectionate."

Patsy realized the folly of arguing with him.

"Maurie," said she, "or whatever your name may be, you have been
faithful in your duty to us and we have no cause for complaint. But I
believe you do not speak the truth, and that you are shifty and artful.
I fear you will come to a bad end."

"Sometimes, mamselle," he replied, "I fear so myself. But, _peste_! why
should we care? If it is the end, what matter whether it is good or
bad?"

Watching their faces closely, he saw frank disapproval of his sentiments
written thereon. It disturbed him somewhat that they did not choose to
continue the convers