Part 10 (1/2)

”I'm doomed,” he said. ”I was in the first stage of consumption when I came here, and the disease is gripping me more tightly every day.

Perhaps it's a judgment on me.”

”What do you mean by that?” asked Tom, but Martel did not reply except by a shrug of the shoulders.

”Speaking of Auvergne,” remarked Tom after a pause, ”reminds me that I have a special chum whose mother came from that province. She married an American, too.”

”_Vrai_?” exclaimed Martel with quickened interest. ”What was her name, _mon ami_?”

”Blest if I remember,” answered Tom. ”I've heard it, too, but I don't recall it. But I'll tell you how I can find out,” he went on, rummaging in his pockets. ”I've got a letter somewhere that was sent to my chum. I got it from the headquarters post-office the day I was captured and forgot to give it to him. The Huns tore the envelope off when they saw me, but when they saw that it was of no importance to them they tossed it back. I've kept it carefully ever since because it's from some lawyer fellow in Paris telling him about his mother's property, and I hope some time to be able to hand it to him. It's simply a business letter with nothing private or personal in it. Here it is,” and Tom produced from his pocket a crumpled letter without an envelope. ”Let's see, the name of Frank's mother is Delatour--why, what's the matter, Martel?” he added anxiously, as he saw the Frenchman turn white and start back at the mention of the name.

”Nothing,” answered Martel, controlling himself with difficulty. ”A little weakness--I'm not very strong, you know.”

The conversation turned then in other channels, and Tom soon forgot it in his absorption of his one idea of escape.

A week had pa.s.sed when a sudden hemorrhage that attacked Martel brought the prison doctor to his side. He shook his head after an examination.

There was no hope. It was a matter of days only, perhaps of hours. He was heartless and perfunctory. What did it matter? The sufferer was only a prisoner.

A little while after, Martel called Tom to him.

”I told you, _mon ami_, that it would not be long,” he said with the ghost of a smile. ”And I also told you that perhaps it was a judgment on me. Do you remember?”

”Why, yes,” answered Tom reluctantly. ”But perhaps you'd better not excite yourself talking about it. I guess we've all done things we're sorry for afterwards.”

”But I committed a crime,” said Martel. ”I perjured myself. And I did it for gain.”

”There, there,” soothed Tom, but Martel continued:

”No, I must speak. _Le bon Dieu_ has sent you to me. Listen, _mon brave_, I was in the household of Monsieur Delatour. I had seen Mademoiselle Lucie grow up from childhood. She was charming. But she married and pa.s.sed largely out of our life. Monsieur Delatour grew old. He had made his will leaving the property chiefly to his daughter. But there was a nephew, a spendthrift--what you call in English the black sheep--and after Monsieur Delatour died this _mauvais sujet_ offered me money to swear that there was a later will. The object? To tie up the estate, to delay the settlement, to force a compromise with the daughter. I took the money. I perjured myself.

There was no later will. The property belongs to Mademoiselle Lucie--pardon, Madame Sheldon.”

He fell back exhausted on his pillow. Tom was shocked, but he was also greatly excited at the prospect of the wrong that had been done to Frank's mother being righted. At Martel's request the confession was reduced to writing with many details added, and then a number of the prisoners signed their names as witnesses.

Tom was not sure how far the confession would stand in law, but he felt reasonably certain that it would be regarded as good evidence and he was jubilant at the chance that had made him of such great service to his chum, Frank.

The confession was made none too soon, for that same night Martel died.

”Well, Frank, old scout,” said Tom to himself the next day, as he carefully read and re-read the important doc.u.ment, ”that alarm clock played me a lowdown trick, but it's sure been a good friend of yours, all provided I can get this confession to you!”

CHAPTER X

A MIDNIGHT SWIM

”A pretty tight place we're in,” remarked Bart to Frank as the Army Boys stood side by side behind a barricade of logs where they had just repelled a German attack that had surged up close before it fell back in confusion.

”Tight is right,” grunted Bart, as he reloaded his rifle which was getting hot from firing.

”We ought to be used to tight places by this time,” put in Billy, stopping long enough to wipe the perspiration from his face. ”It seems that when our division has a specially tough job to do they always call upon the old Thirty-seventh to do it.”

There was no exaggeration in describing the position the soldiers were holding as a tight place. While the great drive had not yet begun, the enemy was carrying on a nibbling process in the attempt to improve his position before the start of the big offensive.