me back straight?"

"Straight."

"But you heard the shots fired?..."

"Shots?"

"Yes, on the frontier."

"No. I must have gone to sleep at once.... I was tired.... Otherwise, if
I had heard them ..."

He had an intuition of the danger which he was running, especially as
Suzanne was trying to make signs to him. But he had prepared the opening
of his story so carefully that, being unaccustomed to lying, he would
have been unable to alter a single word of it without losing the little
coolness that remained to him. Moreover, himself worn out and incapable
of resisting the atmosphere of anxiety and nervousness that surrounded
him, how could he have perceived the trap which Marthe unconsciously
had laid for him? He, therefore, repeated:

"Once more, when I left my room, I had no idea of what had happened. It
was an accident that put me in the way of it. I had reached the Col du
Diable and was walking along the frontier-road when, half-way from the
Butte-aux-Loups, I heard moans and groans on my left. I went to the spot
where they came from and discovered, among the bracken, a wounded man,
covered in blood...."

"The deserter," said Mme. Morestal.

"Yes, a German private, Johann Baufeld," replied Philippe.

He was now coming to the true portion of his story, for his interview
with the deserter had really taken place when he was returning from
Saint-Elophe, at break of day; and he continued, with an easier mind:

"Johann Baufeld had only a few minutes to live. He had the death-rattle
in his throat. Nevertheless, he had strength enough left to tell me his
name and to speak a few words; and he died in my arms, not, however,
before I learnt from him that M. Jorance and my father had tried to
protect him on French territory and that the police had turned upon
them. I therefore went in search of them. The track was easy to follow.
It took me through the Col du Diable to the hamlet of Torins. There, the
inn-keeper made no difficulty about telling me that a squad of police,
several of whom were mounted, had passed his house on their way to
Boersweilen, where they were conveying two French prisoners. One of these
was wounded. I could not find out if it was your father, Suzanne, or
mine. In any case, the wounds must have been slight, for both prisoners
were sitting their horses without assistance. I felt reassured and
turned back. At the Col du Diable, I met Victor.... You know the rest."

He seemed quite happy at finishi