Another of my precious theories was going up in smoke. Not seeing why a set of bonafide officers should gratuitously murder a chauffeur, I had been wondering whether the quartet might not be impostors, tricked out in uniforms to which they had no claim. Still, of course, I couldn’t judge. If she would only confide in me! I was fairly aching to help her; yet how could I, in this blindfold way? “I don’t wish to be impertinent,” I ventured at length, meekly, “and I give you my word I’m not trying to find out anything you don’t want me to. Only, assuming I’ve got some sense,--in case you care to be so amiable,--I’d like to put it at your service. Do you think you could give me just a vague outline of your plans?” She looked at me in a piteous, uncertain manner. I braced myself for a “No.” Then, suddenly, she seemed to decide to trust me--in sheer desperate loneliness, I dare say. “I am going,” she whispered, “to a village in the war zone--where there is a chateau. There are things in it--some papers; at least I believe there are. It is just a chance, just a forlorn hope; but it means all the world to certain people. I have to act in secret till I have succeeded, and then every one in France, every one on earth may know all that I have done!” If I had not burned my bridges, this announcement might have worried me; it was too vague, and what little I grasped tallied startlingly with Van Blarcom’s rigmarole. However, having bowed allegiance, I didn’t blink an eyelid. “Yes,” I said encouragingly. “Is it very far?” Her eyes went past me anxiously, watching the inn and its blank windows, as she fumbled in her coat and brought forth a motor map. “Take it,” she breathed, thrusting it toward me. “Look at it. Do you see? The route in red!” As I realized the astounding thing I choked down an exclamation. There, beneath my finger, lay the village of Bleau, a tiny dot; and from it, straight into the war zone, the traced line ran through Le Moreau and Croix-le-Valois and St. Remilly; ran to--what was the name? I spelled it out: P-r-e-z-e-l-a-y. Though it was early in the game to be a wet blanket, I found myself gasping. “But,” I protested weakly, “you can’t do that! It’s in the war country; it’s forbidden territory. One has to have safe-conducts, _laissez-passers_, all sorts of documents to get into that part of France.” “I didn’t come unprepared,” she answered stubbornly. “Before I started I knew just what I should need. I can get as far as the hospital at Carrefonds; and Carrefonds is beyond Prezelay, ten miles nearer to the Front!” “But--” The monosyllable was distinctly tactless. She straightened, challenging me with brave, defiant eyes.