Ruth Fielding in the Red Cross; Or, Doing Her Best for Uncle Sam

CHAPTER XXIV—A PARTIAL EXPOSURE

The matron was evidently somewhat alarmed as well as surprised, but Ruth’s calm manner reassured her to some extent.

“It is all right, Madame,” the American girl told her. “I expected monsieur’s visit.”

“Oh, if mademoiselle is assured——?”

“Quite, Madame.”

The Frenchwoman hurried from the office and left the girl and the secret agent alone. The latter smiled quietly and asked Ruth to be seated.

“It is from Monsieur Joilette, at Lyse, that I come, as I say. He informs me you have the logic of a man—and a man’s courage, Mademoiselle. He thinks highly of you.”

“Perhaps he thinks too highly of my courage,” Ruth returned, smiling.

“Not so,” proceeded Monsieur Lafrane, with rather a stern countenance, “for it must take some courage to tell but half your story when first you went to Monsieur Joilette. It is not—er—exactly safe to tell half truths to the French police, Mademoiselle.”

“Not if one is an American?” smiled Ruth, not at all shaken. “Nor did I consider that I did wrong in saying nothing about Mrs. Mantel at the time, when I had nothing but suspicion against her. If Monsieur Joilette is as wise as I think him, he could easily have found the connection between those two dishonest men from America and the lady.”

“True. And he did so,” said the secret agent, nodding emphatically. “But already Legrand and this José had made what you Americans would call ‘a killing,’ yes?” Ruth nodded, smiling. “They got away with the money. But we are not allowing Madame Mantel, as she calls herself——”

“That isn’t her name then?”

“Name of a name!” ejaculated the man in disgust. “I should say not. She is Rosa Bonnet, who married an American crook four years ago and went to the United States. He was shot, I understand, in an attempt of his gang to rob a bank in one of your Western States.”

“Oh! And she came East and entered into our Red Cross work. How dreadful!”

“Rosa is a sharp woman. We believe she has done work for les Boches. But then,” he added, “we believe that of every crook we capture now.”

“And is she arrested?”

“But yes, Mademoiselle,” he said good-naturedly. “At least the police of Lyse were about to gather her in as I left this afternoon to come over here. But the men——”

“Oh, Monsieur!” cried Ruth, with clasped hands, “they have been in this neighborhood only to-day.”

He shot in a quick: “How do you know that, Mademoiselle Fielding?”

She told him of the French girl’s visit and of what Henriette had said of seeing Legrand, the Mexican and Bessie riding away in a motor-car from the chateau.

“To be trusted, this girl? This Mademoiselle Dupay?”

“Oh, quite!”

“The scoundrels! They slip through our fingers at every turn. But we will have them yet. Surely they cannot escape us for long. There are too many looking for them—both of the secret police and of the army.”

“Then the woman, too! The old woman and that José may only be related. Perhaps she has nothing to do with—with——”

“With what, Mademoiselle?” he asked, smiling across the table at her, and that grimly.

“Is there not spying, too? Don’t you think these people are in communication with the Germans?”

“Could you expect me to answer that query, Mademoiselle?” he returned, his eyes suddenly twinkling. “But, yes! I see you are vitally interested. And you have heard this old wives’ tale of the werwolf.”

He quite startled her then, for she had said nothing of that in her letter to the Lyse prefect of police.

“Some matters must be cleared up. You may be able to help, Mademoiselle. I have come to ask you to make a call with me.”

“A call? On the Dupays? I hope I have said nothing to lead you to suppose that they are not loyal. And they have been kind to me.”

“Quite so, Mademoiselle,” he rejoined again with gravity. “I would ask you to do nothing that will make you feel an atom of disgrace. No, no! A mere call—and you shall return here in an hour.”

Ruth knew it was a command as well as a request. She hurried for her wrap, for the evening was damp. But she did not remove her costume of the Red Cross.

As she came down to the waiting car she saw that she was peered at by several of the nurses. Some wind of what was going on evidently had got about the hospital.

Ruth ran down the steps and jumped into the car, the tonneau door of which was held open by the man with whom she had talked in the matron’s office. Instantly the engine began to purr and the car slipped away from the steps.

Lafrane bowed to Ruth again, and said, with a gesture, as though introducing her:

“My comrades, Mademoiselle Fielding. Be of good courage. Like myself, Mademoiselle, they admire the courage of les Americaines.”

Ruth could say nothing to that. She felt half stifled with seething emotions. Her heart beat rapidly. What was now going to happen to her? She had endured many strange experiences since coming to France; but she had to admit that she was not prepared for this occurrence.

The car shot through the tortuous roads swiftly. Suddenly she noted that they were taking the hilly road to the Dupay farm—the longer way. They mounted the hill toward the chateau gate.

A light flashed ahead in the roadway. The car was pulled down to a stop before the entrance to the Chateau Marchand. Another soldierly looking man—this one in uniform—held the lantern and pointed to the gateway of the estate. To Ruth’s surprise the wide gates were open.

The guard said something swiftly that the girl did not catch. The chauffeur manipulated the clutch and again the car leaped ahead. It turned directly into the private drive leading up to the chateau.

CHAPTER XXV—Quite Satisfactory

One of his companions got out, too, and him they left in the entrance hall, standing grim and silent against the wall like an added piece of ancient armor, of which there were several in sight, while the secret agent and Ruth entered an apartment on the right.

It was a library—a long and lofty room, paneled with carved oak and furnished in a wood quite as dark, the chairs and huge table being massive. There were a few fine old pictures; but the bookshelves were almost stripped of volumes. Ruth noted that but a few dozen remained.

The floor, too, was bare; yet by the stain on the boards she saw that once a huge rug must have almost covered the room. Everything remaining gave the apartment a stern and poverty-stricken air.

These things she noted at first glance. The countess was present, and it was the countess who attracted Ruth’s almost immediate attention.

She was quite as handsome and graceful as she had seemed when Ruth saw her walking in the road. But now she was angry, and her head was held high and her cheeks were deeply flushed. Her scant skirts swishing in and out of the candlelight, she walked up and down the room beyond the table, with something of the litheness of the caged tiger.

“And have you come back to repeat these things you have said about Bessie?” she demanded in French of the secret agent.

“But, yes, Madame la Countess. It is necessary that you be convinced,” he said respectfully.

“I cannot believe it. I resent your accusation of poor Bessie. She has been with me for twenty years.”

“It is so,” said the man gravely. “And we cast no reflection upon her faithfulness to you, Madame. But have you noted no change in her—of late?”

“Ah, who has not been changed by the war?” murmured the countess, stopping to look at them across the table. Then for the first time she seemed to apprehend Ruth’s presence. She bowed distantly. “Mademoiselle Americaine,” she murmured. “What is this?”

“I would ask the mademoiselle to tell you what she knows of the connection of your servant with these men we are after,” said the secret agent briefly. Then he gestured for Ruth to speak.

The latter understood now what she had been brought here for. And she was shrewd enough to see, too, that the French secret police thought the countess entirely trustworthy.

Therefore Ruth began at the beginning and told of her suspicions aroused against Legrand and José when still she was in America, and of all the events which linked them to some plot, aimed against France, although she, of course, did not know and was not likely to know what that plot was.

The men were proven crooks. They were in disguise. And Ruth was positive that José was closely associated with the old serving woman whom Ruth had seen with the dog.

At mention of the greyhound the countess and the secret agent exchanged glances. Ruth intercepted them; but she made no comment. She saw well enough that there was a secret in that which she was not to know.

Nor did she ever expect to learn anything more about that phase of the matter, being unblessed with second sight. However, in our next volume, “Ruth Fielding at the War Front; Or, The Hunt for a Lost Soldier,” she was destined to gain much information on several points connected with the old chateau and its occupants.

Now, however, she merely told the countess what the agent had asked her to tell, including the fact that Bessie had been seen that afternoon riding away from the chateau with the two criminals, Legrand and José.

Her testimony seemed to convince the lady of the chateau. She bowed her head and wiped away the tears that moistened her now paling cheeks.

“Ma foi! Who, then, is to be trusted?” she murmured, when the girl had finished. “Your pardon, Monsieur! But, remember, I have had the poor creature in my service for many years.

“I must accept all your story as true. The American mademoiselle convinces me. This José, then, must be Bessie’s nephew. I had heard of him. I must thank her, perhaps, that she did not allow him and his associate to rob me before she ran away. The apaches!”

“We will get them,” said the agent cheerfully, preparing to depart. “I leave men in the neighborhood. They will communicate with you—and you can trust them. If the woman reappears alone we must question her. You understand?” and he spoke with some sternness.

The countess nodded, having recovered her self-control. “I know my duty, Monsieur,” she said. Then to Ruth, putting forth her hand, she added:

“You have called and find me in sore trouble, my dear. Do I understand that you work in our hospital at Clair?”

“Yes, Madame,” replied the girl.

“Come to see me again, then—at a happier time.” She pressed Ruth’s hand for a moment and went out. The secret service agent bowed low as she disappeared. Then he said with admiration to Ruth:

“Ma foi! A countess, say you? She should be a queen.” Ah, this good republican was quite plainly a lover of the aristocracy, too!

Ruth was whisked back to the hospital. On the way Monsieur Lafrane assured her that she would be gratefully remembered by the French secret police for what seemed to her, after all, a very simple thing.

The men were confident of soon apprehending Legrand and his companions. “And then—the jug!” ejaculated the leader, using with gusto what he fondly believed to be another Americanism.

It was not likely that Ruth would sleep much that night. Her mind was greatly overwrought. But finally, about daylight, when she did fall into a more or less refreshing sleep, an orderly came to her door and knocked until she responded.

“Mademoiselle has waiting for her on the steps a visitor,” he said, with a chuckle. “She should come down at once.”

“A visitor, Henri?” she cried. “Who can it be?”

“One young Americaine,” he replied, and went away cheerfully humming a tune.

“What can that Charlie Bragg want at this hour in the morning?” Ruth murmured, yet hurrying her toilet. “Possibly he brings news of Tom!”

Down she ran to the court as soon as she was neat. A man was sitting on the steps, leaning against the doorpost. It was not Charlie, for he was in military uniform and she could see an officer’s insignia. He was asleep.

She saw as she left the stairway and crossed the entrance hall that he wore his arm in a sling. She thought instantly of the unknown American in Lyse Hospital who had lost his forearm. Then——

“Tom Cameron!” she cried, and sprang to his side.

The soldier awoke with a start. He looked up at her and grinned.

“Hullo, Ruthie,” he observed. “Excuse this early call, but I might not have another rest day for a long time. We’re going into the trenches—going to take over a sector of the French line, they say, before long. So——

“Hullo! What’s happened?”

“Your arm, Tom! You are wounded?” she gasped.

“Oh, shucks! Got a splinter of shell in it. Nothing much. Keeping it in splints so it will mend quicker,” he said.

“But your letter, Tom!” she cried, and there, in the early morning, standing upon the hospital steps, she told him the story of the happening that had so disturbed and troubled her.

“Don’t that beat all!” exclaimed Tom. “I wondered what had happened to that letter that I had just finished when I was called on duty. It was Sam Hines who had his arm torn off—poor fellow. We heard from him. He’s getting on all right, but, of course, he’ll have to go home.

“He must have picked up my letter, maybe to give it to me, knowing I had forgotten it. Well, it’s all right, Ruthie. I can tell you lots more than was in that letter—and you’ve got a lot to tell me.”

So they sat down, side by side, and related each to the other all their adventures, while the great guns on the battle line boomed a rumbling accompaniment to what was said.

THE RUTH FIELDING SERIES

By ALICE B. EMERSON

12 mo. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors.