Stewart put his hand into an inner pocket, drew out the crackling parchment and passed it over. The other took it, unfolded it, glanced at the red seal and at the date, then read the very vague description of its owner, and finally drew out a notebook. "Pease sign your name here," he said, and indicated a blank page. Stewart wrote his name, and the officer compared it with the signature at the bottom of the passport. Then he nodded, folded it up, and handed it back across the table. "It is quite regular," he said. "For what time have you been in Germany?" "About two weeks. I attended the surgical congress at Vienna." "You are a surgeon by profession?" "Yes." "You are now on your way home?" "Yes." "When will you leave Germany?" "I am going from here to Aix-la-Chapelle in the morning, and expect to leave there for Brussels to-morrow afternoon or Sunday morning at the latest." The officer noted these details in his book. "At what hotel will you stay in Aachen?" he asked. "I don't know. Is there a good one near the station?" "The Kölner Hof is near the station. It is not large, but it is very good. It is starred by Baedeker." "Then I will go there," said Stewart. "Very good," and the officer wrote, "Kölner Hof, Aachen," after Stewart's name, closed his notebook and slipped it into his pocket. "You understand, sir, that it is our duty to keep watch over all strangers, as much for their own protection as for any other reason." "Yes," assented Stewart, "I understand. I have heard that there is some danger of war." "Of that I know nothing," said the other coldly, and rose quickly to his feet. "I bid you good-night, sir." "Good-night," responded Stewart, and watched the upright figure until it disappeared. Then, lighting a fresh cigar, he gazed out at the great cathedral, nebulous and dream-like in the darkness, and tried to picture to himself what such a war would mean as Bloem had spoken of. With men by the million dragged into the vast armies, who would harvest Europe's grain, who would work in her factories, who would conduct her business? Above all, who would feed the women and children? And where would the money come from--the millions needed daily to keep such armies in the field? Where could it come from, save from the sweat of inoffensive people, who must be starved and robbed and ground into the earth until the last penny was wrung from them? Along the line of battle, thousands would meet swift death, and thousands more would struggle back to life through the torments of hell, to find themselves maimed and useless. But how trivial their sufferings beside the slow, hopeless, year-long martyrdom of the countless thousands who would never see a battle, who would know little of the war--who would know only that never thereafter was there food enough, warmth enough---- Stewart started from his reverie to find the waiter putting out the lights. Shivering as with a sudden chill, he hastily sought his room. CHAPTER II