Henri had a good ear too. And the man he was waiting for did not come. Also he had been to school in England and spoke English rather better than most British. So he heard a conversation like this, the gaps being what he lost: MR. TRAVERS: ---- to France, anyhow. After that ---- SARA LEE: Awfully sorry to be ---- But what shall I do if I do get over? The chambermaid up-stairs ---- very difficult. MR. TRAVERS: The proper and sensible thing is ---- home. SARA LEE: To America? But I haven't done anything yet. Henri knew that she was an American. He also realized that she was on the verge of tears. He glared at poor Mr. Travers, who was doing his best, and lighted a French cigarette. "There must be some way," said Sara Lee. "If they need help--and I have read you Mabel Andrews' letter--then I should think they'd be glad to send me." "They would be, of course," he said. "But the fact is--there's been some trouble about spies, and--" Henri's eyes narrowed. "Spies! And they think I'm a spy?" "My dear child," remonstrated Mr. Travers, slightly exasperated, "they're not thinking about you at all. The War Office has never heard of you. It's a general rule." Sara Lee was not placated. "Let them cable home and find out about me. I can give them references. Why, all sorts of prominent people are sending me money. They must trust me, or they wouldn't." There were no gaps for Henri now. Sara Lee did not care who heard her, and even Mr. Travers had slightly raised his voice. Henri was divided between a conviction that he ought to go away and a mad desire to join in the conversation, greatly augmented when Sara Lee went to the window and wiped her eyes. "If you only spoke French--" began Mr. Travers. Sara Lee looked over her shoulder. "But of course I do!" she said. "And German and--and Yiddish, and all sorts of languages. Every spy does." Henri smiled appreciatively. It might all have ended there very easily. Sara Lee might have fought the War Office single-handed and won out, but it is extremely unlikely. The chances at that moment were that she would spend endless days and hours in anterooms, and tell her story and make her plea a hundred times. And then--go back home to Harvey and the Leete house, and after a time, like Mrs. Gregory, speak rather too often of "the time I went abroad." But Sara Lee was to go to France, and even further, to the fragment of unconquered Belgium that remained. And never so long as she lived, would she be able to forget those days or to speak of them easily. So she stood by the window trying not to cry, and a little donkey drawing a coster's cart moved out in front of the traffic and was caught by a motor bus. There was only time for the picture--the tiny beast lying there and her owner wringing his hands. Such of the traffic as could get by swerved and went on. London must move, though a thousand willing little beasts lay dying.