Charles Gail had been gassed. Milicent had not seen him, but Lieutenant Byrne had visited him and repeated to Milicent that he was not sure whether Charles knew him. Ruth scarcely could bear thought of visiting Charles Gail and pretending that she was Cynthia; but it was evident that he was so weak that he would suspect nothing. The chance of George Byrne betraying her was greater. He had been in Paris, Milicent said, upon some special duty of indefinite duration. Every time he had called he had left messages with Milicent and had assumed that he might not be able to return to the Rue des Saints Pères. “He was here the day we got the news that Mirevaux was taken,” Milicent said. “We tried in every way to get word of you. He was almost crazy, dear. He loves you; don’t you ever doubt that!” Ruth made no reply, though Milicent waited, watching her. “I didn’t say anything to him about Gerry Hull, dear.” “I’ve written him about meeting Gerry,” Ruth said, simply. “I’ll start for the hospital now, Mil.” “You’ll let me go with you, Cynthia?” “Thanks; but it’s not--I think I’d rather not.” Milicent gazed at her, a little surprised and hurt, but she made no further offer. Ruth went out on the Rue des Saints Pères alone; a start of panic seized her as she gazed up and down the little street--panic that from a neighboring doorway, or about one of the corners, George Byrne might suddenly appear and speak to her. The late spring afternoon was clear and warm; and that part of Paris was quiet, when from Ruth’s right and ahead of her came the resound and the concussion of a heavy explosion. Ruth gazed up, instinctively, to find the German airplane from which a torpedo might have dropped; but she saw only the faint, dragon-fly forms of the French sentinel machines which constantly stood guard over Paris. They circled and spun in and out monotonously, as usual, and undisturbed at their watch; and, with a start, Ruth suddenly remembered. From beyond the German lines in the forest of Saint Gobain, Paris was being bombarded by some new monster of Krupp’s; the explosion where a haze of débris dust was hanging over the roofs a half mile or more away had been the burst of a shell from that gun. Since the start of the German assault the Germans had been sending these random shells to strike and kill at every half hour for several hours upon almost every day. So Paris had learned to recognize them; Paris had become accustomed to them; Parisians shrugged when they struck. But Ruth did not.