Henri came rather late.  It was one of the things she was to learn about him later—­that he was frequently late.  It was only long afterward that she realized that such time as he spent with her was gained only at the cost of almost superhuman effort.  But that was when she knew Henri’s story, and his work.  She waited for him in the reception room, where a man and a woman were having coffee and talking in a strange tongue.  Henri found her there, at something before nine, rather downcast and worried, and debating about going up to bed.  She looked up, to find him bowing before her.

“I thought you were not coming,” she said.

“I?  Not come?  But I had said that I would come, mademoiselle.  I may sit down?”

Sara Lee moved over on the velvet sofa, and Henri lowered his long body onto it.  Lowered his voice, too, for the man and woman were staring at him.

“I’m afraid I didn’t quite understand about this afternoon,” began Sara Lee.  “You spoke about taking a chance.  I am not afraid of danger, if that is what you mean.”

“That, and a little more, mademoiselle,” said Henri.  “But now that I am here I do not know.”

His eyes were keen.  Sara Lee had suddenly a strange feeling that he was watching the couple who talked over their coffee, and that, oddly enough, the couple were watching him.  Yet he was apparently giving his undivided attention to her.

“Have you walked any to-day?” he asked her unexpectedly.

Sara Lee remembered the bus, and, with some bitterness, the two taxis.

“I haven’t had a chance to walk,” she said.

“But you should walk,” he said.  “I—­will you walk with me?  Just about the square, for air?” And in a lower tone:  “It is not necessary that those two should know the plan, mademoiselle.”

“I’ll get my coat and hat,” Sara Lee said, and proceeded to do so in a brisk and businesslike fashion.  When she came down Henri was emerging from the telephone booth.  His face was impassive.  And again when in time Sara Lee was to know Henri’s face better than she had ever known Harvey’s, she was to learn that the masklike look he sometimes wore meant danger—­for somebody.

They went out without further speech into the clear cold night.  Henri, as if from custom, threw his head back and scanned the sky.  Then they went on and crossed into the square.

“The plan,” Henri began abruptly, “is this:  You will be provided to-morrow with a passport to Boulogne.  You will, if you agree, take the midnight train for Folkestone.  At the railway station here you will be searched.  At Folkestone a board, sitting in an office on the quay, will examine your passport.”

“Does any one in Boulogne speak English?” Sara Lee inquired nervously.  Somehow that babel of French at the Savoy had frightened her.  Her little phrase book seemed pitifully inadequate for the great things in her mind.