lge. You may let him go," she said, hiding the
twist of paper in her palm. "Let him rest--poor fellow!"

She patted the greyhound with the sole of her slipper and the big dog
yawned; then laid his head upon his paws. He was still panting, his
sides heaving heavily. His legs and feet were bedaubed with mud.

"He has come a long way," the countess said coolly to Ruth. "Let us go
in, Mademoiselle. It must be that our tea is ready."

She seemed to consider Ruth quite worthy of her confidence. The
American girl knew that she was on the verge of an important discovery.
It could not be that Bubu carried messages to Germany to give aid and
comfort to the enemy! That suspicion was put to rest.

Bubu was being used to bring news from French spies across the battle
lines. Otherwise the countess would never have allowed Ruth to
discover this mystery of the "werwolf."

And how shrewd was the method followed in the use of the obedient dog!
A hollow tooth, which would be overlooked even if the enemy shot and
examined the animal.

Ruth wanted to ask a hundred questions; but she did not open her lips
It might be that the countess supposed she was already aware of the use
made of Bubu, and how he was used. The American girl had been brought
to the chateau by Monsieur Lafrane, the agent of the French secret
service bureau. And the countess knew, of course, his business.

As soon as they were in the library, where the tea things were laid,
the countess proceeded to smooth out the bit of paper and examine it
under a strong reading glass.

"Ah!" she cried, in a moment, her smooth cheeks flushing and her eyes
brightening. "He is well! My dear boy!"

Her joy urged Ruth to question her, yet the girl hesitated. Her eyes,
however, revealed to the countess her consuming curiosity.

"Mademoiselle!" exclaimed the old lady, "do you not _know_?"

"I--I don't know what you mean, Madame," stammered Ruth.

"It is from the count--my Allaire!"

"The message is from Count Marchand?" cried the girl, in utter
amazement.

"But yes. He does not forget his old mother. When able, he always
sends me word of cheer. Of course," she added, looking at the American
girl curiously now, "there is something else upon the paper. His
message to his mother is not a line. You understand, do you not?
Monsieur Lafrane, of course----"

"Monsieur Lafrane has never told me a word," Ruth hastened to say. "I
only suspected before to-day that Bub