"Good evening," said Patsy pleasantly. "Is Maurie within?"

"Henri is within," answered Clarette with a fierce scowl, "and he is
going to stay within."

"But we have need of his services," said Ajo sternly, "and the man is in
our employ and under contract to obey us."

"I also need his services," retorted Clarette, "and I made a contract
with him before you did, as my marriage papers will prove."

The little boy and girl had now crowded into the doorway on either side
of their mother, clinging to her skirts while they "made faces" at the
Americans. Clarette turned to drive the children away and in the act
allowed Patsy and Ajo to glance past her into the hut.

There stood little Maurie, sleeves rolled above his elbows, bending over
a battered dishpan where he was washing a mess of cracked and broken
pottery. He met their gaze with a despairing countenance and a gesture
of appeal that scattered a spray of suds from big wet fingers. Next
moment Clarette had filled the doorway again.

"You may as well go away," said the woman harshly.

Patsy stood irresolute.

"Have you money to pay the rent and to provide food and clothing?" she
presently asked.

"I have found a few francs in Henri's pockets," was the surly reply.

"And when they are gone?"

Clarette gave a shrug.

"When they are gone we shall not starve," she said. "There is plenty of
charity for the Belgians these days. One has but to ask, and someone
gives."

"Then you will not let us have Maurie?"

"No, mademoiselle." Then she unbent a little and added: "If my husband
goes to you, they will be sure to catch him some day, and when they
catch him they will shoot him."

"Why?"

"Don't you know?"

"No."

Clarette smiled grimly.

"When Henri escapes me, he always gets himself into trouble. He is not
so very bad, but he is careless--and foolish. He tries to help the
Germans and the French at the same time, to be accommodating, and so
both have conceived a desire to shoot him. Well; when they shoot him he
can no longer earn money to support me and his children."

"Are they really his children?" inquired young Jones.

"Who else may claim them, monsieur?"

"I thought they were the children of your first husband, the
blacksmith."

Clarette glared at him, with lowering brow.

"Blacksmith? Pah! I have no husband but Henri, and heaven forsook me
when I married him."

"Come, Patsy," said Ajo to his companion, "our errand here is hopeless.
And--pe