CHAPTER XXIII
MADAM DEATH
There was no reply, because the young man was hanging out over his window sill in the darkness trying to switch away, from her closed window below, the big, clattering Death's Head moth which obstinately and persistently fluttered there.
What possessed the moth to continue battering its wings at the window of the room below? Had the other moths which he released done so, too? They had darted out of his room into the night, each garnished with a tissue robe. He supposed they had flown north; he had not looked out to see.
What had gone wrong with this moth, then?
He took his emaciated blond head between his bony fingers and pondered, probing for reason with German thoroughness—that cele[pg 296]brated thoroughness which is invariably riddled with flaws.
Of all contingencies he had thought—or so it seemed to him. He could not recollect any precaution neglected. He had come to Sainte Lesse for a clearly defined object and to make certain reports concerning matters of interest to the German military authorities north of Nivelle.
The idea, inspired by the experiments of Henri Fabre, was original with him. Patiently, during the previous year, he had worked it out—had proved his theory by a series of experiments with moths of this species.
He had arranged with his staff comrade, Dr. Glück, for a forced hatching of the pupæ which the latter had patiently bred from the enormous green and violet-banded caterpillars.
At least one female Death's Head must be ready, caged in the trenches beyond Nivelle. Hundreds of pupæ could not have died. Where, then, was his error—if, indeed, he had made any?