“It is a tiny town beyond Saarlouis; near the Hoch Wald.” “Oh, yes; I know. What is your name?” “Luise Brun,” Ruth said. There was a German girl of that name who had lived in Onarga; Ruth had gone to high school with her and had known her well. During the early days of the war, Luise had told Ruth about her relatives in Germany--her grandfather, who had lived near Losheim until he died the winter before, and her two cousins, both of whom had been killed fighting. Ruth did not resemble Luise Brun in any way; and she did not imagine that she could go to Losheim and pass for Luise; but when questioned about herself, she had far more detailed knowledge of Luise’s connections to borrow for her own use than she had had of Cynthia Gail’s. Wessels, however, appeared less interested in Ruth’s German relatives than in herself. “You have been in America most of your life?” he asked. “When I was a baby I was brought to Losheim and again when I was a little girl,” Ruth said. “My father and mother never forgot the Fatherland.” “Of course not,” Wessels accepted, impatient of this loyal protestation and desirous to return to the more personal. “I was saying you are much like an American girl. American girls, I must admit, attract me.” He began speaking to her suddenly in German; and Ruth replied in German as best she could, conscious that her accent was far from perfect. It appeared to pass with him, however, as the sort of pronunciation to be expected from a girl reared in America. “How old are you now, Luise?” he questioned familiarly. “Twenty-five.” “Yet _eines mädchen_, I warrant.” “I am not married, Herr Baron,” Ruth assured, employing the address to one of title. Either he was a possessor of baronial rank and pleased with the recognition of the fact, or the assignment of the rank was gratifying and he did not correct her. “And in America you have no sweetheart of your own--other than your ‘flames?’” He spoke the slang word in English, referring to Byrne and to Gerry Hull, with both of whom, as he believed, she had merely played. “No one, Herr Baron,” Ruth denied, but colored warmly. He took this flush for confession that she was hiding an attachment; and he laughed. “No matter, Luise; he is not here.” He was indulgently more familiar with her--a _von_ something or other, admitting pleasure with the daughter of a man of no rank who had emigrated to America. Ruth brought up the business between them to halt further acceleration of this familiarity. “I am to make my report to you, Herr Baron?” “Report? Ah, yes! No; of course not. Why should you make report here now? It is simply trouble to record and transmit it. You are not going back to France, I said, did I not?” “Yes.” “Then the report will be tomorrow.” “Where, Herr Baron?” “Where I take you to--headquarters.”