as meant to impress the
feminine heart. A gallant figure he cut, too, as he stood there,
caressing his Kaiser-fashioned moustaches with one hand while the other
rested on the hilt of his sword. He was tall, fully six feet, and,
according to Dalroy's standard of physical fitness, at least a stone too
heavy. The personification of Nietzsche's Teutonic "overman," the "big
blonde brute" who is the German military ideal, Dalroy classed him, in
the expressive phrase of the regimental mess, as "a good bit of a
bounder." Yet he was a patrician by birth, or he could not hold a
commission in the Imperial Guard, and he had been most helpful and
painstaking that night, so perforce one must be civil to him.

Dalroy himself, nearly as tall, was lean and lithe, hard as nails, yet
intellectual, a cavalry officer who had passed through the Oxford mint.

By this time four other occupants of the compartment were in evidence,
and a ticket-examiner came along. Dalroy produced a number of vouchers.
The girl, who obviously spoke German, leaned out, purse in hand, and was
about to explain that the crush in the booking-hall had prevented her
from obtaining a ticket.

But Dalroy intervened. "I have your ticket," he said, announcing a
singular fact in the most casual manner he could command.

"Thank you," she said instantly, trying to conceal her own surprise. But
her eyes met Von Halwig's bold stare, and read therein not only a ready
appraisement of her good looks but a perplexed half-recognition.

The railwayman raised a question. Contrary to the general custom, the
vouchers bore names, which he compared with a list.

"These tickets are for Herren Fane and Dalroy, and I find a lady here,"
he said suspiciously.

"Fraeulein Evelyn Fane, my cousin," explained Dalroy. "A mistake of the
issuing office."

"But----"

"_Ach, was!_" broke in Von Halwig impatiently. "You hear. Some fool has
blundered. It is sufficient."

At any rate, his word sufficed. Dalroy entered the carriage, and the
door was closed and locked.

"Never say I haven't done you a good turn," grinned the Prussian. "A
pleasant journey, though it may be a slow one. Don't be surprised if I
am in Aachen before you."

Then he coloured. He had said too much. One of the men in the
compartment gave him a sharp glance. Aachen, better known to travelling
Britons as Aix-la-Chapelle, lay on the road to Belgium, not to France.

"Well, to our next meeting!" he went on boisterously. "R