"That I shan't tell you, Vincent," said Alice, "for it was you—at least it was after a trip with you, that Elizabeth told me that the demon had got her again, and she'd got to run away to a new place."
"I won't talk to her about the war," said Vincent. "I promise."
"I shan't tell you where she lives anyhow. You see, Elizabeth wants to go back to France. She's bound to go back! And the doctors tell her the quickest way to get there is to play, and to amuse herself with as much determination as she worked and gave herself a year ago. So she's obeying their orders. Oh, she's putting up an awfully plucky fight, and she's sure to win it, in time, too. But I don't think wounded soldiers will help her much even if they do promise not to talk about the war. No, Vincent, I shan't tell you where she lives."
It was a whole month later, when Vincent ran down the scent, which finally brought him to the quiet mountain retreat where he found Elizabeth Oliver, at last, seated, as it happened, upon a hilltop, overlooking a valley walled in by quiet mountains.
From the inn, where she and a protecting aunt were stopping, an innocent desk-clerk had directed Vincent to Miss Oliver's favorite haunt. Vin-
