I could only stand crouched in a friendly doorway, my hands before my eyes, thinking of my dear friends, and particularly of a certain girl in Chicago with whom I had exchanged photographs, of my dear home, my little brothers, in fact all my life passed before me. I dare not go out to look for the Herr Baron. How I envied him, that hardened man of war to whom this terrible concatenation of sound was as the gentle zephyrs; who could stand unmoved and watch with his stern military eye the destruction that was going on about him, uncaring, unafraid, contemptuous of danger, seeking only the information he required for his superiors! In that moment I almost loved the man, even though I hated to meet him lest he mistook my ague for a more ignoble emotion, but presently I plucked up courage and went out to look for him. He was not at the corner of the lane nor was he on that pavement at all. I made a circuit of the Cathedral without meeting him and then I realized that the Zeppelins had not been near St. Paul’s but had passed westward. Naturally he would have been informed at the last moment and would have been on a spot where they would pass. I did not attempt to join the throngs that gathered about the places where the bombs had fallen, but made my way homeward. At one o’clock he had not returned; two, three, and four passed. I still listened and then the horror of the possibility seized me. This gallant man had perhaps paid for his temerity with his life and I bought an early morning paper as soon as one was procurable and searched in vain for some indication of his fate. Such a man could not be stricken down without attracting attention, but there was no reference whatever to such a one as he. In a fever of anxiety I paced my room. I called up my various agents but they could give me no information and I had almost abandoned hope when, at half-past eleven, the Baron came, debonair and calm into my office. “You had a good view,” were the first words he said. “Oh, Herr Baron,” I said. I grasped his hand and shook it (a most presumptuous thing to do); “I am so glad to see you back! If you missed me, I was on the spot.” “I didn’t miss you,” he said. “Where were you?” “I was at Fishguard, meeting your man but apparently without success, for he did not come.” “You were at Fishguard?” I gasped. “Naturally,” he said, “you don’t suppose I am such a silly fool that I am going to stand under a bomb to see it burst, do you?” Such a man was this mean-souled dog, von Treutzer! Thank heaven! He disappeared in a week. He may have been picked up by a descending Zeppelin. He may have been taken off by a near-approaching submarine. I have had no news, but if I hear he got back to Germany alive, I, Heine, will be sorry. CHAPTER VI. THE AFFAIR OF THE ALLIES’ CONFERENCE