Eve Berkeley was anxious, having not heard from Alan for several weeks.
She eagerly scanned the papers but found no mention of his name. Ella
Hallam was with her. Eve was glad of company, it cheered her, and
Duncan Fraser came frequently to The Forest, generally looking in at
Trent Park on the way.

Eve surmised that Ella was the attraction and hoped that her friend would recognize his many good qualities. She liked Fraser. He did so much for Alan, and the business prospered under his management. He had not heard from him and, like Eve, was growing anxious.

"Perhaps he has been sent on an important mission," he said, "and is unable to write. When he left he hinted at something of the kind."

"The suspense is more than I can bear," she replied.

"I am sure he is safe," said Ella. "Mr. Chesney is capable of taking care of himself."

"Under ordinary circumstances," said Eve; "but there is danger everywhere in France."

Captain Morby was home on leave. He came to see Eve. She welcomed him cordially. Had he any news of Alan?

He looked grave and her heart sank.

"You will keep it secret?" he said.

"Anything you will tell me I will not repeat," she replied.

"He was sent to Brussels," said Harry.

"Brussels!" exclaimed Eve. "Right into the enemy's quarters!"

"Yes, a dangerous mission, but no one so competent to perform it successfully as Alan."

"But Brussels! He will never come out alive!"

Harry smiled as he replied:

"It is part of a great danger, but even if he were discovered I do not suppose his life would be forfeited, although he might be detained."

"Why did he go, who sent him?" she asked.

"A highly placed member of the Belgian Government. I was told on best authority he was specially requested to go," said Harry.

"Then I am not surprised he placed his services at their disposal," said Eve.

"No more am I."

It was quite true. Alan had accepted this dangerous mission which, if successfully accomplished, would render great service. He had full permission to go and did not underestimate the risk.

Discarding his uniform he put on civilian clothes and posed as a Belgian. He spoke French fairly well and this helped him. After many narrow escapes he succeeded in reaching Brussels, where he was in danger of discovery every hour. He walked about the streets openly, sat in several cafÉs, and talked with the people. There were hundreds of German officers and soldiers, but there was nothing particularly suspicious about Alan's appearance. He was well disguised and did not look at all like an Englishman.

Despite this some officers looked at him curiously and in the course of a few days he fancied he was followed.

He succeeded in his mission and learned by heart what he had to say on his return. There were many willing Belgians ready to help him at the risk of their lives. In a fortnight he was ready to leave the city; but this was more difficult than entering it. On every side were Germans, and nobody was allowed to leave Brussels without a special permit, and these were hard to get. He had to wait as patiently as possible for a favorable opportunity. Every day he remained the situation became more dangerous.

So far he had avoided speaking to any of the Englishwomen who were still in the city. He knew he was watched, that the first false step might be fatal.

He did not think there would be much risk in calling at the English nursing home. Many Belgians went there, and he had so far passed as such.

He called, Nurse Ranger received him in her private room. She heard who he was and why he was there. She volunteered to assist him in getting away.

She offered to procure him a permit to leave Brussels, but was afraid it would take some time. When it was secured it would only take him to Bruges or somewhere within the German occupied territory.

Alan said his chief difficulty was to get out of Brussels. Once free from the city he would have a chance of returning to the English lines.

Nurse Ranger was a courageous, a fearless woman, who had rendered valuable assistance to Belgians desirous of joining their comrades in arms.

After some difficulty she procured Alan a permit to leave the city under the name of Armand Roche. This she obtained through a German officer she had nursed back to life and who, for once in a way, proved grateful. Alan did not immediately make use of it.

The permit was countersigned by the Governor and therefore he considered it would frank him anywhere. It expressly stated, however, the limits in which it was available. At last he put it to the test, and arrived as far as Bruges. He had been in the quaint old city before and knew it well. What a contrast to the last time he was there! He recalled it vividly. Now the old market-place was filled with German troops and the hotel where he had formerly stayed tenanted by German officers. It was lucky for him his permit was signed by the Governor of Brussels; he soon found nothing less would have franked him.

The risk would come when he tried to return to his own lines and he prepared for it. All went well. He had a horse provided for him, a fast one that had once been a racer, and he must trust to luck once he got clear of the German lines. How to get clear was, however, a puzzle and he tried to solve it as best he could.

He met one or two German officers who spoke French, and seemed to get on well with them. They were suspicious—he saw that—and of course he did not trust them, but they proved useful as he went about with them. They bragged about their conquests, and Alan urged them on until in their boastfulness they gave him an account of the vast power of the German Army on the Western front and he got valuable information as to the best way to reach the scene of the fighting and the nearest trenches.

He made his attempt to leave Bruges one dark night and had not much trouble in getting out of the town. The danger began when he came to the outskirts and had to pass the cordon drawn round the town to prevent people from leaving in certain directions.

He made the attempt in several quarters and found it too risky; but on this particular night fortune favored him.

It was dark. He rode up to the guard and was challenged. He handed his permit, and when it was being examined he made a bolt into the more open country. For a few precious moments the Germans were surprised and Alan was away in the dark at top speed. The horse was a flyer and no mistake. His heart beat high with hope as he felt it bound under him. Shots were fired but fell short. Then he heard a noise behind him but it was too dark to see anything.

He rode straight ahead, judging this would take him out of the Germans' country. For several hours he went on at a great pace. Occasionally his horse stumbled, but that gave him no anxiety, for he was used to all kinds of situations when riding.

When light began to steal over the landscape he took in the lay of the land. He was in the middle of a wide flat country; the ground was wet and marshy. He had no idea where he was but he seemed safe from pursuit. Not a soul was to be seen. He slowed the horse down to a walk, it was time the animal had a rest.

Where was he?

He went slowly on; then he saw in the distance what looked like a white farm-house. It was a dwelling of some kind and he made for it. As he came within hail an old man stepped out, a Belgian peasant, so Alan judged him by his appearance. He spoke to him in French. The old man regarded him curiously. As Alan looked at him he thought:

"He's a better man than I imagined. Perhaps he's disguised."

In answer to Alan's question he said in excellent French:

"Who are you? You don't look like a civilian."

Alan determined to be straight with him; it would probably be best.

"I am a soldier. I wish to find the English lines."

"Ah!" exclaimed the man. "Get down, come inside. Where are you from?"

"Bruges."

The man held up his hands, tears came into his eyes. He lamented the fall of the city, its occupation by the Germans. He had a daughter in Bruges when the enemy entered the city. He wrung his hands; his grief was painful. He said no more, but Alan guessed and grasped his hands in sympathy—and hate.

Alan put the horse in the tumble-down stable, the roof was half off, the rafters hanging down, the walls crumbling—an old place. It had been in the family of Jean Baptistine for many years. He was a lone man, no wife, three sons fighting, and his daughter—ah well, she was where no harm could come to her. She had saved her honor and sacrificed her life. He was glad of that, very glad, honor was more than life.

He gave Alan food, coarse but clean, which he enjoyed, for he was hungry.

Jean talked freely. He supposed he and his farmhouse were left alone because they were out of the fire zone, or perhaps the barbarians did not think it worth while to meddle with him. There was no wine in the house. He procured a little brandy which he gave to Alan and sipped a small quantity himself.

Alan learned that he was in the enemies' country, that it would be difficult for him to get to the Allied lines. He might be taken at any moment and shot on the spot. He had left his permit in the hands of the guard when he galloped away.

Jean Baptistine said there was no immediate danger. Soldiers did not often come his way. His guest had better lie concealed for a few days. He would be glad of his company, something might happen, the Boches might be driven back defeated.

Alan being tired went upstairs to lie down. The bed was clean, the room smelt fresh. Jean told him to rest comfortably. He threw himself on the bed; before Jean left the room he was asleep.

The sun streaming through the small windows woke him. He sat up, wondering at first where he was.

On the old-fashioned table he saw a pair of gloves and a cigar-case.
How came they there?

He got off the bed, took the cigar-case in his hands, and stared in amazement. The monogram V.N. was engraved on it, he recognized it, he had given it to Vincent Newport when he resigned his commission; and Captain Newport was posted among the missing. How came the case here, and the glove?

He was examining them when Jean came up the crazy stairs into the room.

To Alan's rapid question he said:

"He was an officer, he escaped from the escort, they tracked him down.
I hid him, but it was no use—they found him."

"What became of him?" asked Alan.

"They took him away," he said. "They would have shot me but he pleaded for me, said I did not hide him, knew nothing about it, that he crept into the house and took the clothes he was wearing himself."

"Then he is alive?" said Alan.

"I believe so. Look," said Jean. He pulled open a drawer and Alan saw in it an officer's uniform.