"All right in there, boys?"
"Yes," answered a voice.
"Not cold?"
"Non. Are we at the hospital?"
"Yes; we are trying to wake up the concierge."
There was a sound of a key in a lock, and a small, dark woman opened the door. She was somewhat spinstery in type, her thin, black hair was neatly parted in the middle, and her face was shrewd, but not unkindly.
"Deux blessés (two wounded), madame," said I.
The woman pulled a wire loop inside the door, and a far-off bell tinkled.
"Come in," she said. "The porter will be here immediately."
We stepped into a little room with a kind of English look to it, and a carbon print of the Sistine Madonna on the wall.