Sara Lee was not placated.

“Let them cable home and find out about me.  I can give them references.  Why, all sorts of prominent people are sending me money.  They must trust me, or they wouldn’t.”

There were no gaps for Henri now.  Sara Lee did not care who heard her, and even Mr. Travers had slightly raised his voice.  Henri was divided between a conviction that he ought to go away and a mad desire to join in the conversation, greatly augmented when Sara Lee went to the window and wiped her eyes.

“If you only spoke French—­” began Mr. Travers.

Sara Lee looked over her shoulder.  “But of course I do!” she said.  “And German and—­and Yiddish, and all sorts of languages.  Every spy does.”

Henri smiled appreciatively.

It might all have ended there very easily.  Sara Lee might have fought the War Office single-handed and won out, but it is extremely unlikely.  The chances at that moment were that she would spend endless days and hours in anterooms, and tell her story and make her plea a hundred times.  And then—­go back home to Harvey and the Leete house, and after a time, like Mrs. Gregory, speak rather too often of “the time I went abroad.”

But Sara Lee was to go to France, and even further, to the fragment of unconquered Belgium that remained.  And never so long as she lived, would she be able to forget those days or to speak of them easily.  So she stood by the window trying not to cry, and a little donkey drawing a coster’s cart moved out in front of the traffic and was caught by a motor bus.  There was only time for the picture—­the tiny beast lying there and her owner wringing his hands.  Such of the traffic as could get by swerved and went on.  London must move, though a thousand willing little beasts lay dying.

And Sara moved too.  One moment she was there by the window.  And the next she had given a stifled cry and ran out.

“Bless my soul!” said Mr. Travers, and got up slowly.

Henri was already up and at the window.  What he saw was Sara Lee making her way through the stream of vehicles, taking a dozen chances for her life.  Henri waited until he saw her crouched by the donkey, its head on her knee.  Then he, too, ran out.

That is how Henri, of no other name that may be given, met Sara Lee Kennedy, of Pennsylvania—­under a London motor bus.  And that, I think, will be the picture he carries of her until he dies, her soft eyes full of pity, utterly regardless of the dirt and the crowd and an expostulating bobby, with that grotesque and agonized head on her knees.

Henri crawled under the bus, though the policeman was extremely anxious to keep him out.  And he ran a practiced eye over the injured donkey.

“It’s dying,” said Sara Lee with white lips.

“It will die,” replied Henri, “but how soon?  They are very strong, these little beasts.”

The conductor of the bus made a suggestion then, one that froze the blood round Sara Lee’s heart:  “If you’ll move away and let us run over it proper it’ll be out of its trouble, miss.”