rk in the evacuation hospital at Clair, right behind a sector of
the battle line that had been taken over by General Pershing's forces.
Tom Cameron is with his regiment not many miles away. Indeed, his
company might be engaged in this very activity that had suddenly broken
out within sound, if not in sight, of Clair and the Chateau Marchand.

There was reason for Ruth Fielding's gravity of countenance--and grave
it was, despite its natural cheerfulness of expression--for her
interest in Tom Cameron and his interest in her had long been marked by
their friends. Tom was in peril daily--hourly. It was no wonder that
she revealed the ravages of war upon her mind.

"Sh!" whispered Henriette. "Here comes Dolge, the gardener. Now that
Bessie is gone he is the oldest person Madame la Countess has in her
employ."

"I wonder what became of Bessie. Monsieur Lafrane told me she was not
apprehended with those men who helped her get away from the chateau."

"It is a mystery. She had served Madame so many years. And then--at
the last--they say she was a spy for _les Boches_!"

Dolge appeared, with his toothless grin, at the round opening in the
postern.

"The little Hetty and _Mademoiselle l'Americaine_," he mumbled.
"Madame la Countess expects you."

He unchained the door and let them pass through. Then he shut and
chained the door again just as though the chateau was besieged.

The girls did not wait for him. They walked up the curved avenue to
the wide entrance to the great pile of masonry. The chateau was as
large as a good-sized hotel.

Before the war there had been many comforts, Ruth understood, that now
the countess was doing without. For instance, electric lights and some
kind of expensive heating arrangement.

Now the lady of the chateau burned oil, or candles, like the peasants,
and the chateau doors were wide open that the sun and air of this
grateful day might help dry the tomb-like atmosphere of the reception
hall.

"_Ma foi_!" said Henriette, commenting on this in a low voice, "even
the beautiful old armor--the suits of mail that the ancient Marchands
wore in the times of the Crusades--is rusty. See you! madame has not
servants enough now to _begin_ to care for the place."

"I suppose she has stored away the rugs and the books from the library
shelves," began Ruth; but Henriette quickly said:

"_Non_! _non_! You do not understand, Mademoiselle, what our good lady
has done. The wonderful r