cars. Oh, yes, perfectly absurd. Nevertheless, certain suspicions worried him as he dressed (rather more carefully than usual) for dinner: the pointed foreign-looking handwriting, the curious burr of the voice, especially the telephone incident. "No, quite impossible," followed by a ring-off, was hardly the way to answer a bridge invitation. And why had she volunteered the statement? Why had the parlor maid said "Madame," and not Mrs. Montmorency? Or had she merely said "Madam"? Curious, too, how little his hostess had spoken about herself. "Anyway"-thought concluded-"if I told her all I knew, it wouldn't help the Germans much." Whereupon J. C. shrugged himself into his "British warm," and strolled off toward the Carlton. AT T the Carlton's restaurant J. C. ordered himself a cocktail; took a seat by the staircase, facing the hallway. The band started playing; couples drifted. past him; a waiter brought his drink. ... Five minutes past eight-ten past. ... Had she changed her mind? Then, suddenly, he glimpsed her face through the glass door; saw her coming toward him. She was all in black-a short frock, arms and shoulders gleaming. Her hair, fluffed gold about her temples, held a single aigrette, diamondfastened. "A little late," she apologized, "but you will forgive me. My maid was so stupid." He murmured a conventional pardon; offered her a cocktail, which she refused; followed her up the few stairs. Their table was almost in the middle of the big Louis Seize room; as they threaded their way to it, more than one pair of eyes followed them. In any society Mrs. Montmorency's appearance would have been remarkable; allied to J. C.'s plainness, it positively radiated. "Beauty and the Beast," remarked a sleek youngster in mufti to his table companion. "Venus and Puck," she countered, looking at J. C.'s frizzly hair, his pricked ears and grinning teeth. "And now for dinner," he began, fingering the menu. "Oysters, petite marmite"-she nodded approval "sole diable, they do it awfully well here, a duck, orange salad, pêche melba to follow." He indicated the wine-champagne-without asking her decision. "You seem to know what to order," she commented. "Long practice, I expect." Her voice was so obviously flirtatious that J. C.'s suspicions vanished, leaving him slightly elated at the correctness of his first hypothesis. Only by the time they had finished the sole did he realize that he was being "pumped." The process was extraordinarily subtle; nevertheless quite definite. Did he expect to go out soon? What division was he in? Had they got their guns yet? The interrogatories followed each other-deftly, purposefully worked into the tissue of conversation, impossible to evade without rudeness-and yet just the ordinary questions that any woman might ask of a young officer. All the while the red mouth smiled alluringly; every now and then a silk-shod foot touched his, moved away again. J. C. Continued from page 12 "Why did you say your Admiralty?" he asked. (J. C. was young to the game in those days!) She grew suddenly serious. "My goodness," she said, "I believe you really do think I'm a spy. What are you going to do about it-have me arrested? Why did I say your Admiralty? For the same reason that I used the word 'dope'-because I'm an American by birth, though I am married to an Englishman." She returned to raillery. “It'll make J. C. was not uncomfortable, only interested. He wanted to see just how far the woman would go, just how much information she was bent on extracting. "Need we talk about soldiering?" he ventured. "It's such a bore." "Then you don't like your new career?" "Like it! Who would like it?" She bit at that. "But the men, surely they enjoy the freedom, the open air, the companionship." "Oh, I suppose so," said J. C., and steered the conversation into more personal channels. "Tell me," he asked, "is there a Mr. Montmorency?" "No, a Major Montmorency. He's stationed up north and very rarely gets leave." Again suspicion slumbered; after all, perhaps a husband in the army excused the cross-questioning of which he had been so conscious. J. C. finished his third glass of fizz. "More, don't you think?" he queried. They finished the duck almost in silence, "What are you thinking about?" she suddenly shot at him. In Next Week's Issue ARTHUR RUHL The second part of his vivid new series, "The Last Offensive" JAMES B. CONNOLLY Another of his articles, "A Port in France" on the Peace Conference, quite a sensation, you know. Scare headlines in the "Of course I was only ragging," said J. C. But "You," he admitted, and, the champagne inspiring, decided on a policy of attack. "I was thinking of what you said this afternoon. About your being an adventuress. Supposing, for instance"-he laughed as he spoke, but his eyes never left her face-"that you were really one of those dangerous spies one reads of in the magazines-" “With a vial of dope in my hand bag and a copy of your Admiralty code in the pocket I don't possess," she laughed back at him. MEANWHILE his vis-à-vis had abandoned inter "Your Admiralty!" The monosyllable seemed to hit J. C. between the eyes. had drawn a little vanity case from her embroidered hand bag; was inspecting herself in a tiny mirror. J. C. found his waiter; found that his order had been forgotten; cursed mildly; came back to his seat. Brandy and coffee followed him by a few seconds. rogation, returned to flirtation. The champagne had brought a sparkle into her rather cold eyes; a wisp of hair, detached somehow from the masterly coiffure, trembled on her forehead like a leaf in a breeze. But now for J. C. all the physical allure had departed; there remained, somewhere at the back of consciousness, a new sensation, a zest which reminded of old shooting days-a blood zest. And always he listened to the voice, analyzing it, trying to detect some revealing flaw in the too-perfect English. "We'll have our coffee in the Palm Court, don't you think?" he said. Now that he felt certain-and perhaps a little on account of the liqueurs-his sense of mischief came uppermost. He began making love to her, crudely, obviously; assumed an alcoholic recklessness; let her lead him on; talked about the army, piling misstatement on misstatement; vaunting an imaginary lack of discipline, roasting his superiors, belittling his subordinates. She encouraged him to more brandy; allowed his foot to press hers; plied her trade as she had doubtless plied it, many a night, with many a subaltern. But all the time J. C. was thinking: "This is very amusing, very amusing indeed. But what am I going to do about it?" What could he do? He had no proof except his own certainty, no tangible evidence; couldn't denounce the woman because-because she had tripped over a monosyllable. She agreed, and they walked out through the emptying room; found a table away from the band. She refused a cigarette, saying she never smoked in public; J. C. lit a cigar; and they sat waiting for the coffee and liqueurs he had ordered. A vague constraint seemed to have crept into the woman's conversation; it languished, flashed up, died down again. Had the Fielding of those days been the expert he is now, he might have noticed the betraying tension in the instep muscles of one satin-shod foot, the crisping down of the toes-that safety valve of nerves strung almost to breaking-as a tall man in evening dress lounged past toward the cloakroom. But he was only listening to the voice, the voice that never gave itself away for a single careless syllable. And still the ordered coffee did not materialize. "Hadn't you better go and see about it?" she said. "Oh, no; it'll be here in a minute or two." "Really, Mr. Fielding, I ought to be going home." "Please don't go yet.' "Yes, honestly I must: it's nearly eleven o'clock." She swished off to the cloakroom. J. C. called for his bill; paid it; ordered a taxi. They climbed in; spun off, down Pall Mall, turned up St. James Street. In the jolting darkness J. C. could feel the woman edging closer and closer; felt her hand touch his knee, her hair brush his cheek. But now all the mischief had evaporated from his brain. He knew a hatred of her, a cold, tense hatred as for some unclean thing. His whole body seemed to stiffen with resistance. He fumbled in his pocket for his cigarette case and matches; found them; lit up. In the sputter of the match he saw her face-smiling. They chatted on again; about her house this time. She had only taken it furnished, for six months, from a Colonel Evans-did Mr. Fielding know Colonel Evans? Another five minutes passed, and still no sign of a waiter. "I'm sure," she flashed out suddenly, "that we shall never be get our coffee." There had been only the slightest trip between that half-uttered syllable "be" and the correction "get," but to J. C. it seemed to suffice for her betrayal. There is only one language in Europe wherein the verb "to become" is equivalent to our word "acquire." And that language is-German. They had turned into Piccadilly, were making for Berkeley Square. J. C. sucked hard at his cigarette. He realized perfectly what he ought to do. This was. a game, a war game, and he ought to play it as she played, without heart, without scruples: his hand should find that hand on his knee, close over it; his mouth should search out that mouth-near, so near -kiss it, whisper love words in those ears, false love words that would gain him admission to that little house in Park Street. Then, the entrée won, he would have opportunities-for observation, for search perhaps. And suddenly J. C. knew he couldn't. Instinct rose up in him, and training, the old-fashioned chivalry. To lull her suspicions with kisses, win her confidence and then betray her. No, it just "wasn't done." Yet she was doing it, every day, every night; playing at love, playing with life. Yes with her own life! He began to feel, mingled with his hatred, admiration. "Wann sollen wir unsern Kaffee bekommen?” The taxi stopped. "Won't you come in for a moment?" she suggested, fingering her latchkey. "It's awfully good of you," said Fielding, "but"he hesitated a moment-"I've got to go to the club. Promised to meet a fellow there at a quarter to twelve. I'll ring you up to-morrow if I may." She passed into the house; the door closed. "How could I?" he said to himself as his taxi rattled back to St. James's Square. "How could I?" But, once at his club, away from the attractive proximity of "Mrs. Montmorency," J. C. began to regret his fine scruples, to wish he had followed the adventure to some conclusion. He fell to wondering whether he had given away any valuable information; decided he hadn't; laughed a little at the idea of the inaccurate report on the morale of Kitchener's Army which she might even then be drawing up from his deliberate misstatement. But other officers, younger officers, might have been more confiding. The thing must be put a stop to. That night he got up a loser at bridge, slept execrably. Morning brought resolution. His duty was plain-to report the matter. HIS IS knowledge of the War Office was limited to "A. G. 6," the little room that controls the movements of artillery officers. J. C. passed in under the archway; assured a doubtful janitor that he had an appointment; was ushered into a lift by a boy scout; handed over to a uniformed messenger; told to wait; cooled his spurs in the corridor till a door opened and the major, suspicion on his face, emerged. J. C. saluted. The major said: "What do you want?" "I think, sir, that I have discovered a spy." "Well, why come to me about it?" "I thought you might be interested, sir," went on J. C., who-at the age of thirty-was not to be browbeaten by brass-hatted regulars. "Nothing to do with us," said the major; "that's ever, was to be a fight; a real battle and not a mere maneuver, like the pinching out of the Saint-Mihiel salient. The flood tide had swept over the ridge that morning. It was the ebb that came trickling back to the tirage station in Cheppy two or three nights later, in the dark and mud and rain. THE FIELD HOSPITAL HE village, or what was left of itTit was a few miles west of Hill 304was black, as all things near the front must be at night, and blacker still under the low-hanging clouds and rain. Not a light, scarcely a glimmer except battery commander until he had put on his coat was industriously brushing his teeth. "How's it all going?" he demanded, still holding the toothbrush. "Any idea? We don't know a thing here!" This was one of the batteries firing just above and in front of the hospital. The viscous darkness was lit constantly by their flashes, only to become the blacker as the pale flare went out. Enemy shells had fallen several times in the village during the afternoon-there was no particular reason why the dripping little pocket in the hills might not at any moment be filled with gas. Nobody Complained EANWHILE, out of the dark and Not which seeped through the hospital MEAN Wand tangle of motor trucks, tents or flickered momentarily from the camp kitchen when the canvas curtain that was supposed to shield it was pushed aside. It lay in a pocket in the hills, down into which the never-ending traffic for the front ground ceaselessly, and close by this procession of motor trucks, lurching forward without lamps, in dugouts left by the enemy and tents hastily set up in the mud, was the tirage, or sorting station for the wounded, and the field hospital. It was not a good place for a hospital-neither easy to evacuate from nor safe. The one road to the rear was choked for miles. Two blown-up bridges, which the engineers had not yet contrived to repair, had been replaced by rough cut-offs, running down into hollows and out again. The huge trucks plunged down these, skidded off the narrow way, sagged into mud holes, locked wheels with those coming uploads on which men and guns depended were a whole day covering three or four miles. Down through this mess the ambulance drivers had to fight their way. Then the front line was just over the hills; all about were batteries banging away and likely at any moment to draw the enemy's fire. There had been no time to clean up as yet, and the wreck and refuse of battle (the very fighting that was going on as we had come down from Hill 304 that morning), dead men and horses, and smashed matériel-littered the neighborhood; and felt, even though not seen, added a curious moral burden to the dripping dark. In the ditch beside the road, a few yards from the tirage station, some of the division's dead still lay. There were many more in the ravine, just short of the village, where the enemy had held until bombed out of their dugouts-where, doubtless, they had hidden during those hours of artillery preparation. the ambulances came in and discharged their four stretchers each of wounded. Out of the dark, too, soaked, mudplastered, helping each other and hobbling alone, came the "walking cases" -men with scalp wounds, fingers shot off, slightly "gassed." All had cards pinned to their tunics, giving their names, units, and the nature of their wounds, and all-the "stretcher cases" as well-had to pass the receiving clerks and have these facts taken down. Then they were sorted-surgical cases here, gas there, "shock" in another ward. In the dark and the mud, stumbling over tent ropes, helped out now and then by somebody's flash lamp, they landed finally in their various tents. "Go to It, Boys" COMING through the ravine that afternoon, I had found in one spot two Germans and a boyish American. One of the former had been caught just as he was trying to escape up the hill, and he lay sprawled on his face, his hobnailed boots sagging over the edge of the bank above the road, his hands up in front of him, clutching the grass. The other was in the path beside the road, his pockets scattering post cards and old letters. One of the post cards, dated just before the attack, was addressed to his "dear Augusta" and said that he was "now in Cheppy in the econd line, and things are very quiet." The American lay so close to the road that his feet just grazed the deep rut made by the artillery caissons. The Williams' Many had already passed three other stages in the long journey from the firing line back to the base hospitalthe battalion aid station, almost in the fighting itself; the regimental aid station, a bit farther back, in the lee of some hill, perhaps, only occasionally visited by harassing shells; then the ambulance dressing station, the nearest point to which it was practicable for motor ambulances to go. A day or so later I passed one of the ambulance dressing stations from which some of these wounded had come. It was in an abandoned house beside the road, the yard in front heaped with blood-stained bandages, broken splints, helmets, shoes. A bare foot, or what had been a foot, stuck up from this pile, and there was a scalp lock with something clinging to it. The young doctor in charge, unshaven, haggard after his three days and nights running, motioned toward it wearily. "There's a bit of some lad's knowledge!" he said. rext train, in the dark, might jolt over them. A couple of gunners, looking down at him for a moment and at the shallow hole made by the quick-fused, high-explosive shell that seemed to have done for all three of them, took hold of his boots and dragged him a bit aside. I went up the slope past the dead Cerman. On the summit was a splintered caisson and parts of one of its Lorses-a hoof and fetlock lay fifty yards away. In front of a hedge near The A good many of the droves of wounded that kept ebbing back to the tirage station were minor gas cases, and needed only a little rest and something warm to eat and drink to return, presently, to the line. Everybody, in this open fighting through woods and ravines, is likely to be "gassed." stuff sticks to verdure and earth, especially when they are damp, hangs for days in hollows and thickets-there's no dodging it. In the dim light of the gas tent a long line of men waited to be looked over, coughing, shielding their tear-filled eyes. Some were helpless for the moment and had to be led like blind men. A calm, clear-headed young doctor turned each one toward the light. "What's the matter with you, lad? Gas? How do you feel? Um... Yes. Go and get some coffee and a good night's sleep. You'll be all right tomorrow." For those who needed it he ordered a neutralizing wash for their eyes, and if they were seriously burned, a bath, new clothes, and a hospital farther back. by a battery of seventy-fives were firing. Behind the hedge a captain knelt beside a field telephone. He dropped the receiver, leaned over his map, figured for a moment and called out the range. "Normal barrage!" he shouted. "Go to it, boys! Give 'em hell!" A little farther back an officer in his shirt sleeves-I didn't know he was the For men unable to stand travel there was the field hospital-long tents with double rows of beds, and equipped with X-ray apparatus, operating room, and all the machinery of a complete mobile hospital. Those able to travel waited for trucks into which they could be crowded-if "walking cases"-or were laid in rows in the evacuation tent and sent back to the railroad and the comfortable hospital trains waiting there, as fast as the trucks in which their stretchers were put, two rows deep, could make the long journey down and back again. This trip took forever. The tent filled, and stretchers, covered as well as might be for the moment, were set on ground outside. The icy water gath TH The Holder TopA top for the box and a holder for the fingers HE only purpose of the Holder Top is to add convenience to a shaving necessity. Thousands of men would use Williams' Shaving Soap if they had to hold it with a forked stick. It's that kind of shaving soap. No amount of inconvenience in applying it outweighs the comfort, economy and effectiveness of its softening, soothing, lasting lather. When you realize that Williams' Shaving Soap is that good, then you begin to appreciate what a real luxury Williams' Shaving Soap is when applied with the convenient metal Holder Top. |