Mr. Travers found her by a window looking out.  There was a recruiting meeting going on in Trafalgar Square, the speakers standing on the monument.  Now and then there was a cheer, and some young fellow sheepishly offered himself.  Sara Lee was having a mad desire to go over and offer herself too.  Because, she reflected, she had been in London almost two days, and she was as far from France as ever.  Not knowing, of course, that three months was a fair time for the slow methods then in vogue.

There was a young man in the room, but Sara Lee had not noticed him.  He was a tall, very blond young man, in a dark-blue Belgian uniform with a quaint cap which allowed a gilt tassel to drop over his forehead.  He sat on a sofa, curling up the ends of a very small mustache, his legs, in cavalry boots, crossed and extending a surprising distance beyond the sofa.

The lights were up now, beyond the back drop, the stage darkened.  A new scene with a vengeance, a scene laid in strange surroundings, with men, whole men and wounded men and spying men—­and Sara Lee and this young Belgian, whose name was Henri and whose other name, because of what he suffered and what he did, we may not know.

IV

Henri sat on his sofa and watched Sara Lee.  Also he shamelessly listened to the conversation, not because he meant to be an eavesdropper but because he liked Sara Lee’s voice.  He had expected a highly inflected British voice, and instead here was something entirely different—­that is, Sara Lee’s endeavor to reconcile the English “a” with her normal western Pennsylvania pronunciation.  She did it quite unintentionally, but she had a good ear and it was difficult, for instance, to say “rather” when Mr. Travers said “rawther.”

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.”