The house was set in the middle of a small yard and had a little, low ivy covered stone fence surrounding it and a wooden gate. However, the front of the house was only a few yards from the street so that one could see it distinctly. Frieda was not standing still, but was loitering a few feet from the gate, gazing absently toward the lower windows. Then suddenly and certainly unexpectedly she heard a strange noise, a kind of muffled roar. Then an explosion burst forth so that several panes of window glass broke and puffs of smoke blew out. For an instant there appeared back of the window, and surrounded by the smoke like a cherubim among clouds, a face which Frieda did not really believe she saw. Yet of course she knew she did see it, or else was suddenly mad or dreaming. As a matter of fact she had the sensation that she was taking part in a ridiculous and improbable detective story, of the kind one reads in the weekly magazines. Yet without hesitating, or feeling the proper amount of uncertainty, or fear, Frieda jerked open the little wooden gate and rushed up the path to the front door of the house. There at least she did stop to give the bell a fierce pull, but she might have rushed in had she supposed the door unlocked. However, the next second a little white faced maid appeared at the door, and Frieda simply swept by her. The door of the room, where she had seen the apparition, was on the left side of the hall and without knocking she opened this. Just how Frieda would have explained her own behavior had she made a mistake did not trouble her. But she had not made a mistake. There standing in the centre of the room and still somewhat surrounded by smoke and with the blood coming from an injury to his hand, stood the person whose face Frieda believed she had seen through the broken window. No, she did not really believe she had seen it, though of course she knew she had. [Illustration: I ASSURE YOU I HAVE OFFICIAL PERMISSION] "Are you a deserter, Henry, hiding from justice?" Frieda demanded scathingly, and still following the example of the method employed in detective stories, since her experience was so exactly of the same kind. "I most certainly am not, my dear," Professor Russell answered firmly, but still somewhat apologetically. "I was slightly wounded soon after my arrival at the front. But I also found that my scientific knowledge could be of more service than my abilities as a soldier. So I came back to England and have been experimenting with gas bombs with that in mind. I assure you I have official permission." "Then why have you been hiding and why did you come down here?" Professor Russell looked at Frieda and smiled slowly. "You are the answer to both those questions, Frieda." Unexpectedly Frieda's blue eyes filled with tears.