Irene Beresford, momentarily more alive than he to the exigencies of their position, bought a common shawl at a shop in a side street, and threw away her tattered hat with a careless laugh. She was an excellent actress. The woman who served her had not the remotest notion that this bright-eyed girl belonged to the hated English race. The incident brought back Dalroy's vagrom thoughts from German methods of making war to the serious business which was his own particular concern. The shop was only a couple of doors removed from the Franz Strasse; he waited for Irene at the corner, buying some cheap cigars and a box of matches at a tobacconist's kiosk. He still retained the lantern, which lent a touch of character. The carriage-cleaner's breeches were wide and loose at the ankles, and concealed his boots. Between the sabots and his own heels he had added some inches to his height, so he could look easily over the heads of the crowd; he was watching the passing of a battery of artillery when an open automobile was jerked to a standstill directly in front of him. In the car was seated Von Halwig. That sprig of Prussian nobility was in a mighty hurry, but even he dared not interfere too actively with troops in motion, so, to pass the time as it were, he rolled his eyes in anger at the crowd on the pavement. It was just possible that Irene might appear inopportunely, so Dalroy rejoined her, and led her to the opposite side of the cross street, where a wagon and horses hid her from the Guardsman's sharp eyes. Thus it happened that Chance again took the wanderers under her wing. A short, thick-set Walloon had emptied a glass of schnapps at the counter of a small drinking-bar which opened on to the street, and was bidding the landlady farewell. "I must be off," he said. "I have to be in Visé by daybreak. This cursed war has kept me here a whole day. Who is fighting who, I'd like to know?" "Visé!" guffawed a man seated at the bar. "You'll never get there. The army won't let you pass." "That's the army's affair, not mine," was the typically Flemish answer, and the other came out, mounted the wagon, chirped to his horses, and made away. Dalroy was able to note the name on a small board affixed to the side of the vehicle: "Henri Joos, miller, Visé." "That fellow lives in Belgium," he whispered to Irene, who had draped the shawl over her head and neck, and now carried the jacket rolled into a bundle. "He is just the sort of dogged countryman who will tackle and overcome all obstacles. I fancy he is carrying oats to a mill, and will be known to the frontier officials. Shall we bargain with him for a lift?" "It sounds the very thing," agreed the girl.