Tom stepped ahead of Jack, who was taking off his cap and bowing.
“Let me have a show for my white alley,” Tom murmured to his chum. “You've got one girl.”
“You win,” murmured Jack.
“Yes, we're from the United States,” said Tom. “But it's queer to see a girl here—from America or anywhere else. How'd you get through the lines, and what can we do for you?”
“I am looking for my brother,” was the answer. “I understood he was stationed here, and I managed to get passes to come to see him, but it wasn't easy work. I met this officer in his motor car, and he brought me along the last stage of the journey. Can you tell me where my brother is? His name is Harry Leroy.”
Torn said afterward that he felt as though he had gone into a spinning nose dive with a Boche aviator on his tail, while Jack admitted that he felt somewhat as he did the time his gasoline pipe was severed by a Hun bullet when he was high in the air and several miles behind the enemy's lines.
“Your—your brother!” Tom managed to mutter.
“Yes, Harry Leroy. He's from the United States, too. Perhaps you know him, as I notice you are both aviators. He told me if I ever got to France to come to see him, and he mentioned the names of two young men—I have them here somewhere—”
She began to search in the depths of a little leather valise she carried, and, at that moment, the military chauffeur who had brought her to the aviation field turned to her, and spoke rapidly in French.
She understood the language, as did Tom and Jack, and at the first words her face went white. For the chauffeur informed her that her brother, Harry Leroy, whom she had come so far to see, was, even then, lying dead or wounded within the German lines.