Ruth Fielding In the Red Cross; Doing Her Best For Uncle Sam

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 END