ry,
but nobody outside of a small, strangely assorted company of people
could know what actually happened to the crown jewels of France in
1870, or what pieces, if any, are still missing.

My chase after Buckhurst began as soon as Colonel Jarras could summon
me; and as Buckhurst had last been heard of in Strasbourg, I went
after him on a train loaded with red-legged, uproarious soldiers, who
sang all day:

"Have you seen Bismarck
Drinking in the gay cafe,
With that other brother spark--
Monsieur Badinguet?"

and had drunk themselves into a shameful frenzy long before the train
thundered into Avricourt.

I tracked Buckhurst to Morsbronn, where I lost all traces of him; and
now here I was with my orders concerning the unfortunate people at La
Trappe, staring out at the dismal weather and wondering where my
wild-goose chase would end.

I went to the door and called for the military telegraph operator,
whose instrument I had been permitted to monopolize. He came, a
pleasant, jaunty young fellow, munching a crust of dry bread and
brushing the crumbs from his scarlet trousers.

"In case I want to communicate with you I'll signal the tower on the
Col du Pigeonnier," I said. "Come up to the loft overhead."

The loft in the house which had now been turned into a cavalry
barracks was just above my room, a large attic under the dripping
gables, black with the stains of centuries, littered with broken
furniture, discarded clothing, and the odds and ends cherished by the
thrifty Alsatian peasant, who never throws away anything from the day
of his birth to the day of his death. And, given a long line of
forefathers equally thrifty, and an ancient high-gabled house where
his ancestors first began collecting discarded refuse, the attic of
necessity was a marvel of litter and decay, among which generations of
pigeons had built nests and raised countless broods of squealing
squabs.

Into this attic we climbed, edged our way toward a high window out of
which the leaded panes had long since tumbled earthward, and finally
stood together, looking out over the mountains of the Alsatian
frontier.

The rain had ceased; behind the Col du Pigeonnier sunshine fell
through a rift in the watery clouds. It touched the rushing river,
shining on foaming fords where our cavalry pickets were riding in the
valley mist.

Somewhere up in the vineyards behind us