myself. "He's a man of
German Lorraine. German is his native language. Legally he's a German
subject. He'll only have to pretend that he was caught by accident in
France when the war broke out--and that at last he has escaped. All that
may be easy if there are no spies to give him away--to tell what he's
been doing in France since 1914. The trouble will be when he wants to
come back."

I wished that I could have seen the man again, to have bidden him a
better farewell, to have told him I'd pray for his success. But now it
was too late. Already he must have set off on his "mission," and we were
to start in the morning for Verdun.

The thought of Verdun alone was enough to keep me awake for the rest of
the night, to say nothing of air raids and speculations about Doctor
Paul. It seemed almost too strange to be true that we were to see
Verdun--Verdun, where month after month beat the heart of the world.

The O'Farrells had not got permission for Verdun, nor for Rheims, where
we of the great gray car were going next. Still more than our glimpse
of the trenches were these two places "extra special." The brother and
sister were to start with us from Nancy, but we (the Becketts, Brian,
and I) were to part from them at Bar-le-Duc, where we would be met by an
officer from Verdun. Two days later, we were to meet again at Paris, and
continue--as Puck impudently put it--"_our_ role of ministering angels,"
along the Noyon front and beyond.

This programme was settled when--through influence at Nancy--Father
Beckett's passes for four had been extended to Verdun and Rheims. I
breathed a sigh of relief at the prospect of two more days without the
O'Farrells; and all that's Irish in me trusted to luck that "something
might happen" to part us forever. Why not? The Red Cross taxi might
break down (it looked ready to shake to pieces any minute!). Dierdre
might be taken ill (no marble statue could be paler!). Or the pair might
be arrested by the military police as dangerous spies. (Really, I
wouldn't "put it past" them!). But my secret hopes were rudely jangled
with my first sight of Brian on the Verdun morning.

"Molly, I hope you won't mind," he said, "but I've promised O'Farrell to
go with them and meet you in Paris to-morrow night. I've already spoken
to Mr. Beckett and he approves."

"This comes of my being ten minutes late!" I almost--not quite--cried
aloud. I'd hardly closed my eyes all night, but had fallen into a doze
at daw