there at Holzminden. There was no way of suspecting why all this was happening to me except by the attitude of the Huns themselves and their endless questions and threats and cruelties. They were cruel. They hurt me a lot."
Miss Erith's eyes suddenly dimmed as she watched him, and she hastily bent her head over the pad.
"Well," he went on, "the rest, as I say, is pure surmise. This is my conclusion: I think that for the last forty years the Huns have been busy with an astounding military enterprise. Of course, since 1870, the Boche has expected war, and has been feverishly preparing for it. All the world now knows what they have done—not everything that they have done, however.
"My conclusion is this: that, when Mount Terrible shrugged me off its northern flank, the snow slide carried me to an almost inaccessible spot of which even the Swiss hunters knew nothing. Or, if they did, they considered it impossible to reach from their own territory.
"From Germany it could be reached, but it was Swiss territory. At any rate I think I am the only civilian who has been there, and who has viewed from there this enormous work in which the Huns are engaged.
"And I belive that this mysterious, overwhelmingly enormous work is nothing less than the piercing—not of a mountain or a group of mountains—but of that entire part of Switzerland which lies between Germany and France.
"I believe that a vast military road, deep, deep, under the earth, is being carried by an enormous tunnel from far back on the German side of the frontier, under Mount Terrible, under all the mountains, hills, valleys, forests, rivers—under Switzerland, in fact—into French territory.
"I believe it has been building since 1871. I believe it is nearly finished, and that it will, on French territory, give egress to a Hun army debouching from Alsace, under Switzerland, into France behind the French lines. That part of the Franco-Swiss frontier is unguarded, unfortified, uninhabited. From there a Hun army can strike the French trenches from the rear—strike Toul, Nancy, Belfort, Verdun—why, the road is open to Paris that way—open to Calais, to England!"
"This is frightful!" cried the girl. "If such a dreadful—"
"Wait! I told you that it is merely a surmise. I don't know. I guess. Why I guess it I have told you…. They were savage with me—those Huns…. They got nothing out of me. I lied steadily, even when drunk. No, they got nothing out of me. I denied I had seen anything. I denied—and truly enough—that anybody had accompanied me. No, they wrenched nothing out of me—not by starving me, not by water torture, not by their firing-squads, not by blows, not even by making of me the drunkard I am."
The pencil fell from Miss Erith's hand and the hand caught McKay's, held it, crushed it.
"You're only a boy," she murmured. "I'm not much more than a girl. We've both got years ahead of us—the best of our lives."
"YOU have."
"You also! Oh, don't, don't look at me that way. I'll help you. We've got work to do, you and I. Don't you see? Don't you understand? Work to do for our Government! Work to do for America!"
"It's too late for me to—"
"No. You've got to live. You've got to find yourself again. This depends on you. Don't you see it does? Don't you see that you have got to go back there and PROVE what you merely suspect?"
"I simply can't."
"You shall! I'll make this right with you! I'll stick to you! I'll fight to give you back your will-power—your mind. We'll do this together, for our country. I'll give up everything else to make this fight."
He began to tremble.
"I—if I could—"
"I tell you that you shall! We must do our bit, you and I!"
"You don't know—you don't know!" he cried in a bitter voice, then fell trembling again with the sweat of agony on his face.
"No, I don't know," she whispered, clutching his hand to steady him. "But I shall learn."
"You'll learn that a drunkard is a dirty beast!" he cried. "Do you know what I'd do if anybody tried to keep me from drink? ANYBODY!—even you!"
"No, I don't know." She shook her head sorrowfully: "A mindless man becomes a demon, I suppose. … Would you—injure me?"
He was shaking all over now, and presently he sat up in bed and covered his head with one desperate hand.
"You poor boy!" she whispered.
"Keep away from me," he muttered, "I've told you all I know. I'm no further use…. Keep clear of me…. I'm sorry—to be—what I am."
"When I leave what are you going to do?" she asked gently.
"Do? I'll dress and go to the nearest bar."
"Do you need it so much already?"
He nodded his bowed head covered by the hand that gripped his hair: "Yes, I need it—badly."
She rose, loosened his clutch on her slender hand, picked up her muff:
"I'll be waiting for you downstairs," she said simply.
His face expressed sullen defiance as he passed through the waiting-room. Yet he seemed a little taken aback as well as relieved when Miss Erith did not appear among the considerable number of people waiting there for discharged patients. He walked on, buttoning his fur coat with shaky fingers, passed the doorway and stepped out into the falling snow. At the same moment a chauffeur buried in coon-skins moved forward touching his cap:
"Miss Erith's car is here, sir; Miss Erith expects you."
McKay hesitated, scowling now in his perplexity; passed his quivering hand slowly across his face, then turned, and looked at the waiting car drawn up at the gutter. Behind the frosty window Miss Erith gave him a friendly smile. He walked over to the curb, the chauffeur opened the door, and McKay took off his hat.
"Don't ask me," he said in a low voice that trembled slightly like a sick man's.
"I DO ask you."
"You know what's the matter with me, Miss Erith," he insisted in the same low, unsteady voice.
"Please," she said: and laid one small gloved hand lightly on his arm.
So he entered the car; the chauffeur drew the robe over them, and stood awaiting orders.
"Home," said Miss Erith faintly.
If McKay was astonished he did not betray it. Neither said anything more for a while. The man rested an elbow on the sill, his troubled, haggard face on his hand; the girl kept her gaze steadily in front of her with a partly resolute, partly scared expression. The car went up Park Avenue and then turned westward.
When it stopped the girl said: "You will give me a few moments in my library with you, won't you?"
The visage he turned to her was one of physical anguish. They sat confronting each other in silence for an instant; then he rose with a visible effort and descended, and she followed.
"Be at the garage at two, Wayland," she said, and ascended the snowy stoop beside McKay.
The butler admitted them. "Luncheon for two," she said, and mounted the stairs without pausing.
