"I'm doomed," he said. "I was in the first stage of consumption when I came here, and the disease is gripping me more tightly every day. Perhaps it's a judgment on me." "What do you mean by that?" asked Tom, but Martel did not reply except by a shrug of the shoulders. "Speaking of Auvergne," remarked Tom after a pause, "reminds me that I have a special chum whose mother came from that province. She married an American, too." "_Vrai_?" exclaimed Martel with quickened interest. "What was her name, _mon ami_?" "Blest if I remember," answered Tom. "I've heard it, too, but I don't recall it. But I'll tell you how I can find out," he went on, rummaging in his pockets. "I've got a letter somewhere that was sent to my chum. I got it from the headquarters post-office the day I was captured and forgot to give it to him. The Huns tore the envelope off when they saw me, but when they saw that it was of no importance to them they tossed it back. I've kept it carefully ever since because it's from some lawyer fellow in Paris telling him about his mother's property, and I hope some time to be able to hand it to him. It's simply a business letter with nothing private or personal in it. Here it is," and Tom produced from his pocket a crumpled letter without an envelope. "Let's see, the name of Frank's mother is Delatour--why, what's the matter, Martel?" he added anxiously, as he saw the Frenchman turn white and start back at the mention of the name. "Nothing," answered Martel, controlling himself with difficulty. "A little weakness--I'm not very strong, you know." The conversation turned then in other channels, and Tom soon forgot it in his absorption of his one idea of escape. A week had passed when a sudden hemorrhage that attacked Martel brought the prison doctor to his side. He shook his head after an examination. There was no hope. It was a matter of days only, perhaps of hours. He was heartless and perfunctory. What did it matter? The sufferer was only a prisoner. A little while after, Martel called Tom to him. "I told you, _mon ami_, that it would not be long," he said with the ghost of a smile. "And I also told you that perhaps it was a judgment on me. Do you remember?" "Why, yes," answered Tom reluctantly. "But perhaps you'd better not excite yourself talking about it. I guess we've all done things we're sorry for afterwards." "But I committed a crime," said Martel. "I perjured myself. And I did it for gain." "There, there," soothed Tom, but Martel continued: