“Luxemburg. Ah!” They nod sapiently. I draw my finger slowly along an infinitesimal space of map. “Then I took the vicinal train to Melreux ... so ... and up to Manhay ... so.” “Belgium!” They are shouting again, this time in tones of raucous triumph. For a moment I am at a loss to understand. “Manhay is in Luxemburg,” I say. They prod the map with the tips of their ill-manicured fingers. They gesticulate. They rage. “Sie lügen, sie lügen,” they cry again. “Luxemburg is written up on the wall in our little village street,” I cry, trembling. So it is, but I forget that there is a Belgian Luxemburg too. “She is undoubtedly a spy,” says the fiercer of the two, twisting on his heels and peremptorily addressing the Bourgmestre. His colleague echoes sternly, “Undoubtedly a spy.” A look I do not like creeps into the Bourgmestre’s eyes. The prison walls seem closing in on me. I see myself already blindfolded, led out. I make one last effort. “In England ladies do not spy,” I say. My enemies glare at me with looks of such bitter cold contempt that something seems to give way in my poor little overwrought brain. I seize a handful of my papers, crumple them up and fling them full in the face of my tormentor-in-chief. “England über alles,” I cry in a voice that surprises myself. Then I sit down abruptly and listen to the stertorous conversation which ensues between my foes. I single out the word “gefangene” (prisoner) and gather that while the inquisitors counsel my instant annihilation, the Bourgmestre has other plans in view. I stagger to my feet. In a glass opposite I scarcely recognise myself. I am white-lipped, haggard. There are great blue lines under my eyes. I look the personification of guilt. Suddenly the two men are in the corridor. I hear the Bourgmestre assuring them he will take me under custody to Cologne and deliver me up as a prisoner of war to the authorities. The door is closed, the key turned in the lock. I am alone.... The Bourgmestre returns and bids me follow him. I meekly obey. Presently I am having coffee at a table with his wife and a lady who speaks a little English. My heart sinks again. It seems like a ruse. They bombard me with questions. How impossible to explain a bachelor woman’s point of view to the average German _haus-frau_! The Bourgmestre turns briskly to his wife. “You have not looked under her hat,” he says severely. I suddenly remember my diary and talk on at random. I must think. I must gain time. My only chance is to feign illness. I push away my cup and sink back in my chair. I am already white. “It’s nothing,” I blurt out as the Bourgmestre starts up. “Give me a few minutes in my room.”