"Sure everything's in?" said Captain Bob with a keen glance round the hall, which looked so pathetically empty now that the little pile of brown cases had been carried to the car. "Well, time's up. Au revoir, mon lieutenant. I must air my bad French, you know," and he shook hands warmly with the "Belgian officer," who stood bareheaded on the step to see them off. "Hope to meet you over there one of these days. Buck up and get all right, you know."
"We shall meet, never fear; perhaps sooner than you think," said Van Drissel with a quiet smile. "Good-bye and good luck to you both."
Then the skunk saluted, and the car drove off, Mademoiselle Ottilie waving her handkerchief. Now they were gone, and as the three little girls filed back into the hall wiping their eyes, the Van Drissels exchanged a look.
"You have nothing that matters if you leave it behind?" said the man.
"Nothing at all—a refugee is not supposed to have belongings," replied his wife.
"Very well, do not go yet until you have heard me start the engine. Then when I have gone, walk quietly out of the house just as you are. They might trace a taxi."
The motor-car came to a stand outside Charing Cross Station, and Mrs. Dashwood's heart seemed to come to a stand with it. In less than half an hour she knew she would have parted with her boys, perhaps for the last time, but she kept a brave face as Bob helped her out, and they found themselves on the fringe of the busy throng that every day marks the departure of the boat-train.
There were not quite so many people as usual, for nearly all leave had been stopped.
A porter, well over military age, followed them through the barrier on to No. 2 platform, where the long train was waiting. Three men of the Lincolns, loaded with packs and rifles and bulging haversacks, were looking for three seats in the same compartment.