come
part of his book, rather than its creator; he would be governed by
events; not seek to govern them. In short, as far as in him lay, he
would live, the next few weeks, as a man does who has lost his
identity and moves among his fellows, intent on the present, but with
the background a blank.

Northrup felt that if, at the end of his self-ordained exile, he had
regained his health, outlined a book, and ascertained what was the
cause of the suspicious unrest of the Forest, he would have
accomplished more than he had set out to do and would be in a position
where he could decide definitely upon his course regarding the war,
about which few, apparently, felt as he did.

It was his spiritual and physical struggle, as he contemplated the
matter now, that was his undoing. He was trying to drive the horror
from his consciousness, as a thing apart from him and his. He was
overwhelmed by the possessiveness of the awful thing. It caught and
held him, threatened everything he held sacred. Well, this should be
the test! He would abide by the outcome of his stay in the Forest.

At that moment Maclin, oddly enough, came into Northrup's thoughts and
the fat, ingratiating man became part, not of the plot of the book,
but the grim struggle across the sea.

"Good God!" Northrup spoke aloud; "could it be possible?" All along he
had been able to ignore the suggestions of disloyalty and treachery
that many of his friends held, but a glaring possibility of Maclin
playing a hideous role alarmed him; made every fibre of his being
stiffen. The man was undoubtedly German, though his name was not. What
was he up to?

There are moments in life when human beings are aware of being but
puppets in a big game; they may tug at the strings that control them;
may perform within certain limits, but must resign themselves to the
fact that the strings are unbreakable. Such a feeling possessed
Northrup now. He laughed. He was not inclined to struggle--he bowed to
the inevitable with a keen desire for cooeperation.

At this point something caused Northrup to look around.

Upon a bench near by, hunched like a gargoyle, with her vague face
nested in the palms of her thin hands, sat the girl he had noted in
the yellow house the day of his arrival. One glance at her and she
seemed to bring the scene back. The sunny room, the children, the
dogs, and the girl on the table, who had soon become so familiar to
him.

"Good Lord!" he ejaculated. "And who a