"So you are going back at once to Brussels, Monsieur?" said the old professor in his shaky voice. "Yes, Monsieur! Why don't you come with me?" "I have not the courage!" "Courage! But there is nothing to fear! You come along with me, and I'll see you through all right. I assure you the trains run right into Brussels now. The Germans leave us Bruxellois alone. They're trying to win our favour. They never interfere with us. There is not the slightest danger. And there is not half so much trouble and difficulty to get in and out of Brussels as there is to get in and out Antwerp. You get into a train at Ghent, go to Grammont, and there change into a little train that takes you straight to Brussels. They never ask us for our passports now. For myself, I have come backwards and forwards from Brussels half a dozen times this last fortnight on special missions for our Government. I have never been stopped once. If you'll trust yourself to me, I'll see you safely through!" "I desire to go very much!" muttered the old man. "There are things in Liège that I must attend to. But to get to Liège I must go through Brussels. It seems to me there is a great risk, a very great risk." "No risk at all!" said the young Bruxellois cheerfully. That evening at dinner, the young man aforesaid was introduced to me by Mr. Frank Fox, of the _Morning Post_, who knew him well. It was not long before I said to him: "Do you think it would be possible for an Englishwoman to get into Brussels? I should like very much to go. I want to get an interview with M. Max for my newspaper." He was an extremely optimistic and cheerful young man. He said, "Quite easy! I know M. Max very well. If you come with me, I'll see you safely through, and take you to see him. As a matter of fact I've got a little party travelling with me on Friday, and I shall be delighted if you will join us." "I'll come," I said. Extraordinary how easy it is to make up one's mind about big things. That decision, which was the most important one I ever made in my life, gave me less trouble than I have sometimes been caused by such trifles as how to do one's hair or what frock to wear. Next day, I told everyone I was going to try to get into Brussels. "You'll be taken prisoner!" "You're mad!" "You'll be shot!" "You will be taken for a spy!" "You will never get there!" All these things, and hosts of others, were said, but perhaps the most potent of all the arguments was that put up by the sweet little lady from Liège, the black-eyed mother with two adorable little boys, and a delightful big husband--the gallant chevalier, in yellow bags of trousers, whom I have already referred to in an earlier chapter.