The Girl from Alsace Part 14

Her groping hand found his and took the ticket.

"Now talk to me," she said.

Stewart talked at random, wondering how she intended to destroy the ticket. Once he fancied he heard the sound of soft tearing; and once, when she spoke in answer to a question, her voice seemed strange and m.u.f.fled.

"It is done," she whispered at last. "Place these in your pocket and continue talking."

Her groping hand touched his and he found himself grasping two minute objects whose nature he could not guess, until, feeling them carefully, he found them to be the small wire staples which had held the coupons of the ticket together. He slipped them into his waistcoat pocket; and then, as he began to tell her about the women from Philadelphia and the journey from Cologne, he was conscious that she was no longer beside him. But at the end of a moment she was back again.

"That girl was perfectly right," she said. "Women are very silly to try to travel about Europe without a man as escort. Consider how I should feel at this moment if I did not have you!"

But in spite of themselves, the conversation lagged; and they finally sat silent.

How strange a thing was chance, Stewart pondered. Here was he who, until to-day, had seen his life stretching before him ordered and prosaic, cast suddenly into the midst of strange adventure. Here was this girl, whom he had known for only a few hours and yet seemed to have known for years--whom he certainly knew better than he had ever known any other woman. There was Bloem--he had been cast into adventure, too. Was he outside somewhere, among all those thousands, gazing up at the stars and wondering at Fate? And the thousands themselves--the millions mustering at this moment into the armies of Europe--to what tragic adventure were they being hurried!

A quick step came along the platform and stopped at the door; there was the snap of a lock, and the door swung open.

"You will come out," said a voice in English.

Against the lights of the station, Stewart saw outlined the figure of a man in uniform. He rose wearily.

"Come, dear," he said, and helped her to her feet; "it seems we are to go somewhere else." Then he looked down at the heavy bags. "I can't carry those things all over creation," he said; "what's more, I won't."

"I will attend to that," said the stranger, and put a whistle to his lips and blew a shrill blast. Two men came running up. "You will take those bags," he ordered. "Follow me," he added to Stewart.

They followed him along the platform, crossed the track to another, and came at last to a great empty shed with a low table running along one side. The men placed the bags upon this table and withdrew.

"I shall have to search them," said the officer. "Are they locked?"

He stood in the glare of a lamp hanging from the rafters, and for the first time, Stewart saw his face. The man smiled at his start of surprise.

"I see you recognize me," he said. "Yes--I was in your compartment coming from Cologne. We will speak of that later. Are your bags locked?"

"No," said Stewart.

He watched with affected listlessness as the officer undid the straps and raised the lids. But his mind was very busy. Had he said anything during that ride from Cologne which he would now have reason to regret?

Had he intimated that he was unmarried? He struggled to recall the conversation, sentence by sentence, but could remember nothing that was actually incriminating. And yet, in mentioning his intended stop at Aix-la-Chapelle, he had not added that he was to meet his wife there, and he had made a tentative arrangement to see Miss Field again in Brussels. The talk, in other words, had been carried on from the angle of a bachelor with no one to think of but himself, and not from that of a married man with a wife to consider.

It was certainly unfortunate that the man who had happened to overhear that conversation should be the one detailed here to examine his luggage. How well did he know English? Was he acute enough to catch the implications of the conversation, or would a disregard of one's wife seem natural to his Teutonic mind? Stewart glanced at him covertly; and then his attention was suddenly caught and held by the extreme care with which the man examined the contents of the bags.

He shook out each garment, put his hand in every pocket, examined the linings with his finger-tips, ripped open one where he detected some unusual thickness only to discover a strip of reenforcement, opened and read carefully every letter and paper, turned the Baedeker page by page to be sure that nothing lay between them. He paused over the satin shoes and stockings, but put them down finally without comment. At last the bags were empty, and, taking up his knife, he proceeded to rip open the linen linings and look under them. Then, with equal care, he returned each article to its place, examining it a second time with the same intent scrutiny.

All this took time, and long before it was over, Stewart and his companion had dropped upon a bench which ran along the wall opposite the table. Stewart was so weary that he began to feel that nothing mattered very much, and he could see that the girl also was deadly tired. But at last the search was finished and the bags closed and strapped.

"I should like to see the small bag which Madame carries on her arm,"

said the officer, and, without a word, the girl held it out to him.

He examined its contents with a minuteness almost microscopic. Nothing was too small, too unimportant, to escape the closest attention.

Stewart, marveling at this exhibition of German thoroughness, watched him through half-closed eyes, his heart beating a little faster. Would he find some clew, some evidence of treachery?

There were some handkerchiefs in the bag, and some small toilet articles; a cake of soap in a case, a box of powder, a small purse containing some gold and silver, a postcard, two or three letters, and some trivial odds and ends such as every woman carries about with her.

The searcher unfolded each of the handkerchiefs and held it against the light, he cut the cake of soap into minute fragments; he emptied the box of powder and ran an inquiring finger through its contents; he turned out the purse and looked at every coin it contained; then he sat down and read slowly and gravely the postcard and each of the letters and examined their postmarks, and finally he took one of the closely-written sheets, mounted on his chair, and held the sheet close against the chimney of the lamp until it was smoking with the heat, examining it with minute attention as though he rather expected to make some interesting discovery. As a finish to his researches, he ripped open the lining of the bag and turned it inside out.

"Where did you buy this bag, madame?" he asked.

"In Paris, a month ago."

"These handkerchiefs are also French."

"Certainly. French handkerchiefs are the best in the world."

He compressed his lips and looked at her.

"And that is a French hat," he went on.

"Good heavens!" cried the girl. "One would think I was pa.s.sing the customs at New York. Certainly it is French. So is my gown--so are my stockings--so is my underwear. For what else does an American woman come abroad?"

He looked at her shoes. She saw his glance and understood it.

"No; my shoes are American. The French do not know how to make shoes."

"But the slippers are French."

"Which slippers?"

"The ones in your husband's bag."

She turned laughingly to Stewart.

"Have you been carrying a pair of my slippers all around Europe, Tommy?"

she asked. "How did that happen?"

"I don't know. I packed in rather a hurry," answered Stewart, sheepishly.

"Where is the remainder of your baggage, madame?" asked the officer.

"At Brussels--at least, I hope so. I sent it there direct from Spa."

"Why did you do that?"

"In order to avoid the examination at the frontier."

"Why did not you yourself go direct to Brussels?"

"I wished to see my husband. I had not seen him for almost a month," and she cast Stewart a fond smile.

"Have you been recently married?"

"We have been married four years," the girl informed him, with dignity.