“My work-room,” replied the doctor. “Before this deplorable war interrupted my studies, I had some little reputation in my special branch of mental therapeutics. If you are interested in psychology, normal and abnormal, you will find here a very complete collection of works upon the subject. Use them freely, by all means. Well, if you are satisfied, gentlemen, I will leave you, for I am a busy man. I was just about to visit some patients when you arrived. _Auf wiedersehen!_” He smiled and left them. Vincent turned to his senior, with a puzzled expression. “What is it about that man I do not like?” The older man shrugged his shoulders. “Too friendly by far. They are all the same, these _boches_--they would do anything to make us forget,” he said, divesting himself of his belt. “I am going to have a rest and a cigarette before we walk back into the town.” The young man wandered around the room, scanning the titles of the books on the shelves, picking up the various bibelots scattered about. Suddenly he uttered a startled cry. “_Mon Dieu!_ Look at this!” The major turned to him. In his hand he held a small snapshot photograph. He stared at it, trembling violently. “What is the matter?” “Look!--_It is she!_” The young man’s face was a study in horrified astonishment. Chassaigne looked over his comrade’s shoulder at the photograph. It represented their host arm in arm with a good-looking young woman. “_She?_” he queried, with a tolerant smile. “Be a little more explicit, my dear Vincent.” The young man turned on him. “You remember the deportations from Lille? The women and girls the _boche_ snatched from their homes?--My fiancée was among them.” His voice checked at the painful memory. “Other women have been traced, returned to their relatives. She has never been heard of again.” “My poor friend!” murmured the major, sympathetically. Vincent stared once more, as if fascinated, at the photograph in his hand. “It is she--in every detail! Yet----” his tone was puzzled. “No! I cannot believe it! It is some chance resemblance. This woman is obviously happy--content, at least.” He looked up, passed over the photograph. “Chassaigne, you are an analyst of the human mind. What relationship do you diagnose between those two people?” The major took the print, scrutinized it critically. “Friends, certainly--lovers, possibly,” was his sententious verdict. “Then it cannot be!” cried the young man. “My fiancée was--is, I am sure of it--incapable of a faithless acquiescence in the wrong done to her.” “Can one ever be sure about a woman?” said the major, with a gentle cynicism. “However, I agree with you that it is improbable that the person in the photograph is your lost friend. It is, as you say, a chance resemblance.” “If I could only be certain of it!” The young man was obviously stirred to the depths. “I _must_ make sure, Chassaigne.--I must get to know this woman--find out who she is!”