"Good morning!" said Pariset in French. "You don't speak German?"
"Alas, we Belgians are backward in many things," replied the man in French with a provincial accent and in quavering tones. "What can I do for you?"
"First, tell me where I am, where does the road lead to?"
"By Hamoir to Liége."
"Who were the party who left just now?"
"Officers of your own army": he glanced at the Uhlan uniform.
"And the cyclist?"
"A despatch rider, I think." Then, in the same trembling uncertain voice of an old man, he went on in English: "He was a glue merchant in the Minories six months ago--Ernst Lilienthal & Co., 2nd floor: mind the lift! And if I were you, Herr Pariset, I should wear that tureen" (pointing to the Uhlan helmet) "a trifle more upright, and your shoulder strap a little more aslant, when you meet more Germans than you care to tackle single-handed."
At the first words of English Pariset stared; then he smiled; before the seeming old man had concluded Pariset grasped his hand.
"Mr. Granger! Your disguise is complete, wonderful."