Now we were in the region of danger. We were outside the _dernière ligne_ of the Belgian Army. If one came this way one came at one's risk. But as I looked from the train windows everything seemed so peaceful that I could scarcely imagine there was danger. There were no ruins here, there was no sign of War at all, only little farms and villages bathed in the blue September sunlight, with the peasants working in the fields. As I tried to push my window higher, someone who was leaning from the next window, spoke to me in English, and I met a pair of blue English-looking eyes. "May I fix that window for you? I guess you're English, aren't you, ma'am?" I gave him one quick hard look. It was the War Look that raked a face with a lightning glance. By now, I had come to depend absolutely on the result of my glance. "Yes!" I said, "and you are American." He admitted that was so. Almost immediately we fell into talk about the War. "How long do you think it will last?" asked the American. "I don't know, what do you think?" "I give it six weeks. I'll be over then." And he assured me that was the general opinion of those he knew--six weeks or less. "But what are you doing in this train?" he added interestedly. "Going to Brussels!" "Brussels!" He looked at me with amazed eyes. "Pardon me! Did you say going to Brussels?" "Yes." "Pardon me! But how are you going to get to Brussels?" "I am going there." "But you are English?" "Yes." "Then you can't have a German passport to get into Brussels if you are English." "No. I haven't got one." "But, don't you realise, ma'am, that to get into Brussels you have got to go through the German lines?" We began to discuss the question. He was an American who had friends in Brussels, and was going there on business. His name was Richards. He was a kindly nice man. He could speak neither French nor Flemish, and had a Belgian with him to interpret. "What do you think I ought to do?" I asked. "Go back," he promptly said. "If the Germans stop you, they'll take you prisoner. And even if you do get in," he added, "you will never get out! It is even harder to get out of Brussels than it is to get in." "I'm going to chance it!" "Well, if that's so, the only thing I can suggest is that if you do manage to get into Brussels safely, you go to the American Consulate, and shew them your papers, and they may give you a paper that'll help you to get out." [Illustration: PASSPORT FROM THE AUSTRALIAN HIGH COMMISSIONER.] "But would the Americans do that for a British subject?" "Sure! We're a neutral country. As a little American boy said, 'I'm neutral! I don't care which country whips the Germans!'" Then another idea occurred to Mr. Richards. "But you mustn't go into Brussels with an English passport about you. You'll have to hide that somehow!" "I shall give it to Monsieur Jean to hide," I said. "He's the conductor of the little Belgian party there!"