Chapter IV

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

　　Henri sat on his sofa and watched Sara Lee. Also he shamelessly listenedto the conversation, not because he meant to be an eavesdropper butbecause he liked Sara Lee's voice. He had expected a highly inflectedBritish voice, and instead here was something entirely different—thatis, Sara Lee's endeavor to reconcile the English "a" with her normalwestern 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 betterthan most British. So he heard a conversation like this, the gaps beingwhat 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 onthe verge of tears. He glared at poor Mr. Travers, who was doing hisbest, and lighted a French cigarette.

　　"There must be some way," said Sara Lee. "If they need help—and Ihave read you Mabel Andrews' letter—then I should think they'd beglad to send me."

　　"They would be, of course," he said. "But the fact is—there's beensome 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 heardof you. It's a general rule."

　　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 musttrust 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 dividedbetween a conviction that he ought to go away and a mad desire to joinin the conversation, greatly augmented when Sara Lee went to the windowand 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 spydoes."

　　Henri smiled appreciatively.

　　It might all have ended there very easily. Sara Lee might have foughtthe War Office single-handed and won out, but it is extremely unlikely.The chances at that moment were that she would spend endless days andhours 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 ofunconquered Belgium that remained. And never so long as she lived, wouldshe be able to forget those days or to speak of them easily. So shestood by the window trying not to cry, and a little donkey drawing acoster's cart moved out in front of the traffic and was caught by a motorbus. There was only time for the picture—the tiny beast lying thereand her owner wringing his hands. Such of the traffic as could get byswerved and went on. London must move, though a thousand willing littlebeasts lay dying.

　　And Sara moved too. One moment she was there by the window. And thenext 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 makingher way through the stream of vehicles, taking a dozen chances for herlife. Henri waited until he saw her crouched by the donkey, its headon her knee. Then he, too, ran out.

　　That is how Henri, of no other name that may be given, met Sara LeeKennedy, 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 fullof pity, utterly regardless of the dirt and the crowd and anexpostulating bobby, with that grotesque and agonized head on her knees.

　　Henri crawled under the bus, though the policeman was extremely anxiousto 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 theblood round Sara Lee's heart: "If you'll move away and let us run overit proper it'll be out of its trouble, miss."

　　Sara Lee raised haggard eyes to Henri.

　　"Did you hear that?" she said. "They'd do it too!"

　　The total result of a conference between four policemen, the costermonger,and, by that time, Mr. Travers—was to draw the animal off the streetand into the square. Sara Lee stuck close by. So, naturally, didHenri. And when the hopeless condition of Nellie, as they learned shewas named, became increasingly evident, Henri behaved like a man and asoldier.

　　He got out his revolver and shot her in the brain.

　　"A kindness," he explained, as Sara Lee would have caught his hand."The only way, mademoiselle."

　　Mr. Travers had the usual British hatred of a crowd and publicity,coupled with a deadly fear of getting into the papers, except throughan occasional letter to the Times. He vanished just before the shot,and might have been seen moving rapidly through the square, turningover in his mind the difficulty of trying to treat young American girlslike rational human beings.

　　But Henri understood. He had had a French mother, and there is a leavenof French blood in the American temperament, old Huguenot, some of it.So Americans love beauty and obey their impulses and find life good todo things rather than to be something or other more or less important.And so Henri could quite understand how Sara Lee had forgotten herselfwhen Mr. Travers could not. And he understood, also, when Sara Lee,having composed the little donkey's quiet figure, straightened up withtears in her eyes.

　　"It was very dear of you to come out," she said. "And—of course it wasthe best thing."

　　She held out her hand. The crowd had gone. Traffic was moving again,racing to make up for five lost precious moments. The square was dark,that first darkness of London, when air raids were threatened but hadnot yet taken place. From the top of the Admiralty, near by, aflashlight shot up into the air and began its nightly process of brushingthe sky. Henri took her hand and bent over it.

　　"You are very brave, mademoiselle," he said, and touched her hand withhis lips.

　　The amazing interlude had commenced.