"It was there I left my comrade," Stewart answered, brokenly, his face convulsed. "She was wounded—she could not walk—I was too exhausted to carry her—I went to look for a cart—for an ambulance—I had scarcely taken a step, when the Germans swept over the barricade and into the town. When I got back to the house where I had left her, she was not there."
"Ah," said the other, looking down at Stewart, thoughtfully. "It was a woman, then?"
"Yes."
"Your wife?"
"She had promised to become my wife," and Stewart looked at the other, steadily.
"You are an American, are you not?"
"Yes—I have my passport."
"And Madame—was she also an American?"
"No—she was a Frenchwoman. She was shot twice in the leg as we ran toward your barricade—seriously—it was quite impossible for her to walk. But when I got back to the house, she was not there. What had happened to her?"
His companion gazed out over the meadows and shook his head.