"But I want particularly to go to Arras. Surely, you can manage it, Mr. Harvey. You must know all sorts of influential people here." Her voice, with its husky contralto notes, rather like those of a boy whose voice has lately broken, had always an appeal for Mr. Harvey, and it was particularly pleasing just then. He beamed through his glasses and ran his hand through his curly hair. "I was talking to Sir William Robertson about a very similar proposition only yesterday, and Sir William told me that he'd do anything on earth for the _Chicago Bulletin_, but the War Office, which is in heaven, had decided finally to allow no women correspondents at the British front." May Margaret rose and went to the window. For a moment she pressed her brow against the cool glass and, as she stared hopelessly at the busses rumbling by, an idea came to her. She wondered that she had not thought of it before. "Come here, Mr. Harvey," she said. "I want to show you something." He joined her at the window. A bus had halted by the opposite pavement. The conductor was swinging lightly down by the hand-rail, a very youthful looking conductor, in breeches and leggings. "Is that a man or a woman?" said May Margaret. "A woman, isn't it?" "And that?" She pointed to another figure striding by in blue overalls and a slouch hat. "I don't know. There are so many of them about now, that on general principles, I guess it's a woman. Besides, it looks as if it would be in the army if it were not a woman." "Yes, but I am an American correspondent," said May Margaret. "Gee!" said Mr. Harvey, surveying her from head to foot. His face looked as if all the printing presses of the _Chicago Bulletin_ were silently at work behind it. She was tall and lean--a college friend had described her exactly as "half goddess and half gawk." Her face was of the open-air type. Her hair would have to be cropped, of course. "Gee!" he said again. "It would be the biggest scoop of the war." A fortnight later, a slender youth in khaki-colored clothes, with leggings, arrived at the Foreign Office, presented a paper to a sad-eyed messenger in the great hall, and was led to the disreputable old lift which, as usual, bore a notice to the effect that it was not working to-day. The sad-eyed messenger heaved the usual sigh, and led the way up three flights of broad stone stairs to a very dark waiting-room. There were three other young men in the room, but it was almost impossible to see their faces. "Mr. Grant, of the _Tribune_, wasn't it, sir?" said the messenger. "Mr. Martin Grant, of the _Chicago Bulletin_," said May Margaret, and the messenger shuffled into the distance along a gloomy corridor which seemed to be older than any tomb of the Pharaohs, and destined to last as long again.