Sara Lee Kennedy was up at dawn the next morning.There was a very serious matter to decide, for Henri's plan had included only such hand luggage as she herself could carry.
Sara Lee care fully laid out on the bed such articles as she could not possibly do without, and was able to pack into her suitcase less than a fourth of them.She had fortunately brought a soft wool sweater, which required little room.Undergarments, several blouses, the sweater and a pair of heavy shoes - that was her equipment, plus such small toilet outfit as is necessary when a young woman uses no make-up and regards cold cream only as a remedy for chapped hands.
The maid found her in rather a dismal mood."Going across, miss!" she said."Fancy that!""It's a secret," cautioned Sara Lee."I am really not sure I am going.I am only trying to go."The maid, who found Sara Lee and the picture of Harvey on her dressing table both romantic and appealing, offered to pack.From the first moment it was evident that she meant to include the white dress.Indeed she packed it first.
"You never know what's going to happen over there," she asserted."They do say that royalties are everywhere, going about like common people.You'd better have a good frock with you."She had an air of subdued excitement, and after she had established the fact that not only the white frock but slippers and hose also would go in she went to the door and glanced up and down the passage.Then she closed the door.
"There was queer goings-on here last night, miss," she said cautiously."Spies!""Oh, no!" cried Sara Lee.
"Spies," she repeated."A man and a woman, pretending to be Belgian refugees.They took them away at daylight.I expect by now they've beenshot."
Sara Lee ate very little breakfast that morning.All through England it was confidently believed that spies were shot on discovery, a theory that has been persistent - and false, save at the battle line - since the beginning of the war.And Henri's plan assumed new proportions.Suppose she made her attempt and failed? Suppose they took her for a spy, and that tomorrow's sun found her facing a firing squad? Not, indeed, that she had ever heard of a firing squad, as such.But she had seen spies shot in the movies.They invariably stood in front of a brick wall, with the hero in the center.
So she absent-mindedly ate her kippered herring, which had been strongly recommended by the waiter, and tried to think of what a spy would do, so she might avoid any suspicious movements.It struck her, too, that war seemed to have made the people on that side of the ocean extremely ready with weapons.They would be quite likely to shoot first and ask questions afterwards - which would be too late to be helpful.
She remembered Henri, for instance, and the way, without a word, he had shot the donkey.
That day she wrote Harvey a letter.
"Dearest:" it began; "I think I am to leave for France to-night.Things seem to be moving nicely, and I am being helped by the Belgian Relief Commission.It is composed of Belgians and is at the Savoy Hotel."Here she stopped and cried a little.What if she should never see Harvey again - never have his sturdy arms about her? Harvey gained by distance.She remembered only his unfailing kindness and strength and his love for her.He seemed, here at the edge of the whirlpool, a sort of eddy of peace and quiet.Even then she had no thought of going back until her work was done, but she did an unusual thing for her, unused to demonstration of any sort.She kissed his ring.
Followed directions about sending the money from the church society, a description of Morley's and Trafalgar Square, an account of tea at the Travers', and of the little donkey - without mention, however, of Henri.She felt that Harvey would not understand Henri.
But at the end came the passage which poor Harvey read and re-read when the letter came, and alternately ground his teeth over and kissed.
"I do love you, Harvey dear.And I am coming back to you.I have felt that I had to do what I am doing, but I am coming back.That's a promise.Unless, of course, I should take sick, or something like that, which isn't likely."There was a long pause in the writing here, but Harvey could not know that.
"I shall wear your ring always; and always, Harvey, it will mean to me that I belong to you.With dearest love."SARA LEE"Then she added a postscript, of course.
"The War Office is not letting people cross to Calais just now.But I am going to do it anyhow.It is perfectly ******.And when I get over I shall write and tell you how."S.L."It was the next day that an indignant official in the censor's office read that postscript, and rose in his wrath and sent a third Undersomething-or- other to look up Sara Lee at Morley's.But by this time she was embarked on the big adventure; and by the time a cable reached Calais there was no trace of Sara Lee.
During the afternoon she called up Mr.Travers at his office, and rather gathered that he did not care to use the telephone during business hours.
"I just wanted to tell you that you need not bother about me any more," she said."I am being sent over and I think everything is all right."He was greatly relieved.Mrs.Travers had not fully indorsed his encomiums of the girl.She had felt that no really nice girl would travel so far on so precarious an errand, particularly when she was alone.And how could one tell, coming from America, how her sympathies really lay? She might be of German parentage - the very worst sort, because they spoke American.It was easy enough to change a name.Nevertheless, Mr.Travers felt a trifle low in his mind when he hung up the receiver.He said twice to himself: "Twenty pounds!" And at last he put four sovereigns in an envelope and sent them to her anonymously by messenger.Sara Lee guessed whence they came, but she respected the manner of the gift anddid not thank him.It was almost the first gold money she had ever seen.
