"Evidently—or I should not have—"

She stopped, her face crimson with embarrassment.

"H-m!" said Stewart, reflecting that he, at least, had no reason to regret the mistake. "Perhaps this unknown is in some other room."

"No; you are the only person in the hotel."

"Evidently, then, he has not arrived."

"Evidently," she assented, and stared moodily at the floor, twisting her handkerchief in nervous, trembling hands.

Stewart rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he looked at her. She seemed not more than twenty, and she was almost startlingly beautiful, with that peculiar lustrous duskiness of skin more common among the Latin races than with us. Slightly built, she yet gave the impression of having in reserve unusual nervous energy, which would brace her to meet any crisis.

But what was she doing here? Why should she be driven to leave Germany as the wife of a man whom she had never seen? Or was it all a lie—was she merely an adventuress seeking a fresh victim?

Stewart looked at her again, then he put that thought away, definitely and forever. He had had enough experience of women, as surgeon in a public clinic, to tell innocence from vice; and he knew that it was innocence he was facing now.

"You say you can't leave Germany without a passport?" he asked at last.

"No one can leave Germany without a passport." She sat up suddenly and looked at him, a new light in her eyes. "Is it possible," she demanded, with trembling lips, "can it be possible that you possess a passport?"

"Why, yes," said Stewart, "I have a passport. Unfortunately, it is for myself alone. Never having had a wife——"

But she was standing before him, her hands outstretched, tremulous with eagerness.

"Let me see it!" she cried. "Oh, let me see it!"

He got it out, gave it to her, and watched her as she unfolded it. Here was a woman, he told himself, such as he had never met before—a woman of verve, of fire——

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