e day is gone we are sane men again,
all but our captain. The shell that takes my leg takes what pity, what
softness he has left, and leaves him with just the frenzy to kill. And it
is not for me to wonder--moi--for I know all."

The story haunted Sheila for days; always when she closed her eyes she
could see the girl Nanette coming across the meadow in the moonlight. She
never failed to open them before she saw too far. The plaintive melody of
the berceuse rang in her ears on duty and off, till at last she could
stand it no longer. It was the old dominant Leerie who hunted up the
chief.

"Colonel Sparks, I want you to put me on Captain Fauchet's case. The work
is lighter now; you can do with one less operating-room. I know it's bad
form to interfere, but I want my chance on that case."

The chief looked his surprise. "I've heard of your fondness for breaking
rules--wondered when you were going to begin. I don't mind giving you up,
but that case is hopeless. I'm sure of it. Listen--and this isn't for
publication--Fauchet got out of his ward again, hid in the corridors until
the nurse was gone, and killed another German last night. That man is
incurably insane and we can't keep him here any longer."

"Please!" There was a look about Leerie that could not be denied, a
compelling prayer for the right to save another human being. "You could
keep him a little longer; I'll promise there'll be no more dead Germans.
Give me my chance."

"What's your idea?"

The girl raised a deprecating hand. "Something so crazy that you'd laugh
at it. Let me keep it to myself--and give me Captain Fauchet."

In the end Leerie had her wish. The little room at the end of a ward, used
heretofore for supplies, was turned into a private room, and Monsieur
Satan was moved in, with Sheila O'Leary as guardian. It was very evident
that the patient approved. Once the door was closed behind them, he
beckoned the nurse to him with malignant joy.

"They are all Germans out there--I've just discovered it. Sooner or later
they will all have to be destroyed. You are an American. I can swear to
that, for I saw you on a liner coming from America and your French is so
bad, pardonnez-moi, it could not be anything but American. That is why I
trust you. You are with me against the Boches, n'est-ce pas?"

Sheila solemnly agreed.

"Eh bien, listen. The world is slowly turning Boche. You pour a little
Pinard into water and what do you get? Crimson! Well, you