ugs she has sold--that off the library floor,
which, they say, the old count himself brought from Bagdad. And the
books--all her library--have gone to the convalescent hospitals, or to
the poilus in the trenches. For they, poor men, need the distraction
of reading."

"And some of your neighbors suspect her," repeated Ruth thoughtfully.

"It is because of that awful Thing--the werwolf!" hissed Henriette.

Then there was time for no further speech. A middle-aged woman
appeared, asked the girls in, and led the way to the library. A table
was set near the huge open fireplace in which a cheerful fire crackled.
On the table was a silver tea service and some delicate porcelain cups
and saucers.

The kettle bubbled on the hob. Chairs were drawn close before the
blaze, for, despite the "springiness" in the air without, the
atmosphere in the vast library of the chateau was damp and chill.

As the girls waited before the fire a curtain at the end of the room
swayed, parted, and the tall and plainly robed figure of the countess
entered. She had the air of a woman who had been strikingly beautiful
in her younger days. Indeed, she was beautiful still.

Her snowy hair was dressed becomingly; her checks were naturally pink
and quite smooth, despite the countless wrinkles that netted her
throat. The old lace at the neck of her gown softened her ivory-hued
skin and made its texture less noticeable.

Her gown was perfectly plain, cut in long, sweeping lines. Nor did she
wear a single jewel. She swept forward, smiling, and holding out her
hand to Ruth.

"Here is our little Hetty," she said, nodding to the French girl, who
blushed and bridled. "And Mademoiselle Fielding!" giving the latter a
warm handclasp and then patting Henriette's cheek. "Welcome!" She put
them at their ease at once.

The few family portraits on the walls were all the decorations of the
room. The book cases themselves were empty. Madame la Countess made
the tea. On the table were thin slices of war bread. There was no
butter, no sugar, and no milk.

"We are learning much these days," laughed the countess. "I am even
learning to like my chocolate without milk or cream."

"Oh!" And Henriette whipped from the pocket of her underskirt
something that had been making her dress sag on that side. When she
removed the wrappings she produced a small jar of thick yellow cream.

"My child! It is a luxury!" cried the countess. "I shall feel wicked