Outside, the Grand’ Place was empty, save for the sunshine, not here an enemy, as farther south, but the kindly friend that visits the coasts of the North Sea all too rarely, wasting its pale and tepid gold on the worn stones, on the green-shuttered, biscuit-coloured façades of substantial two-storied houses, with steep roofs and tall chimneys, behind which protruded the summits of ancient Holland elms. For a long while there was no movement, save the flutter of a straw caught in the cobbles. The A.P.M. fidgeted. There was no sound but the classes next door, the wind in the street, the faint tremor of the window-panes, in response to some distant inaudible shelling. “You wouldn’t think there was a war going on within twenty miles?” “Twenty kilometres, sir!” “Is it possible? Are we going to wait all day, Dormer?” “No, sir, only a moment; the people of the house can’t be far off, but the door behind the bar is locked. I don’t want to go into the school myself, Blanquart won’t like it, and one wants to keep on the right side of him.” “Why won’t he like it? He’ll have to.” “The children get out of hand, sir, at the sight of a uniform. I’ve noticed it when I’ve been billeting.” “Do they?” “Yes, sir; it’s all fun to them still.” “Is it?” The A.P.M. grimaced and began reading the signs over the little shops: “_Charcuterie_--what’s that?” “Baked-meat shop. Pork-butcher’s we should call it, sir!” “_Quincaillerie._” “Hardware!” “Who’s this, coming across the square?” “Belgian refugee, sir!” Dormer had no doubt about it. The heavy round-shouldered figure, the mouth hanging loosely open, the bundle carried under the arm, the clumsy boots, the clothes apparently suspended round the waist by a string. Her story was written all over her: turned out of some Walloon or Flemish farm or town, at the approach of the Germans--tramping along a road with a retreating army all mixed up with a nation on the move, she had lost home, parents, occupation, all in a few hours, and was glad to get board and bed and any odd job that she could do. “Is this the sort of person we have to interview?” “Oh no, sir. Different type!” The woman showed some mild interest at the sight of the car, and exchanged banter in pidgin English with the chauffeur and policeman. The invitation from the latter “promenade,” and the smiling, flattered refusal “promenade no bon!” could be heard. Then she entered and stood before them. “_Bonjour_, offizer, what you want?” “Will you kindly tell the Maire’s Secretary one waits to see him.” “You want billets?” in English. “Billets na poo!” “No!” Dormer was always piqued when his French was disregarded or misunderstood. “We want M. Blanquart!” “All right.” She returned with him in a moment. “M. Blanquart, we have been to the farm and seen Vanderlynden. He’s very busy, and we didn’t get much out of him, but we gather his daughter has left home. Do you know her address?”