Bertie on his arrival dared not to go to the American legation for fear of being found out and disavowed.  So he had asked his way in very “English” French, and wearing the semi-military uniform of an American Relief officer—­to the Hotel “Edward-Sett,” where he supposed Vivie would be or could be heard of.  When he reached the Hotel Imperial and asked for “Miss Warren,” he had been at once arrested.  Indeed probably his steps had been followed all the way from the railway station to the door of the hotel by a plain-clothes German policeman.  The Germans were convinced just then that many Englishmen and some American cranks were out to assassinate the Kaiser.  They took Bertie’s appearance at the door of the Hotel Imperial as a proof of his intention.  They considered him to have been caught red-handed, especially as he had a revolver concealed on his person and was obviously travelling with false passports.

“Ah, Bertie,” said Vivie, when they first met in his cell at Saint-Gilles prison.  “If only I had not led you into this!  I am mad with myself...”

“Are you, miss?  But ’oo could ’a foreseen this war would come along!  We thought all we ’ad to fight was the Police and the ’Ome Office to get the Vote.  And then, you’d ’a bin able to come out into the open and practise as a barrister—­and me, again, as your clerk.  It was our damned Government that made you go abroad and get locked up ’ere.  And once I realized you couldn’t get away, thinks I to meself, I’ll find a way...”

It was here that Vivie began questioning him as to how he had reached Brussels from the War zone; and as, towards the end of his story—­some of which he said she would find he had written down in case they wouldn’t let him see her—­the reference to the Emperor came in, she sprang up and tried the door of the cell.  It was fastened without, but a face covered the small, square opening through which prisoners were watched; and a rough voice asked her what she wanted.  It was the German police agent or spy, who, perched on a stool outside, next this small window, was there to listen to all they said.  As they naturally spoke in English and the rough creature only knew “God-dam,” and a few unrepeatable words, he was not much the wiser for his vigil.

“I want—­I must see the Director,” said Vivie.

Presently the Director came.

“Oh, sir,” said Vivie, “give me paper and an envelope, I implore you.  There is pen and ink here and I will write a letter to the Emperor, a petition.  I will tell him briefly the true story of this poor young man; and then, if you will only forward it he may grant a reprieve.”

The Director said he would do his best.  After all, you never knew; and the Kaiser, though he said he hated them always, had a greater regard for the English than for any other nation.  As he glanced from Vivie and her face of agonized appeal to the steadfast gaze which Bertie fixed on her, as on some fairy godmother, his own eyes filled with tears—­as indeed they did many, many times over the tragic scenes of the German Terror.