Martin was glad to get out into the night air, though he had a strange notion that the quietude of the darkened Paris streets was unreal—that the only reality lay yonder where the shells crashed and men burrowed like moles in the earth. His chauffeur saluted.
“Glad to see you, sir,” said the man. “Those blighters wanted to run me in.”
“No. It’s all right. The police are doing good work. Take me to the hotel. I’ll follow your example and go to bed.”
Martin’s voice was weary. He was grateful to Providence that he had been spared the ordeal which faced him when he entered the city. But the strain was heavier than he counted on, and he craved rest, even from tumultuous memories. Before retiring, however, he wrote to Elsie—guardedly, of course—but in sufficient detail that she should understand.
Next morning, making an early start, he guided the car up the Rue Blanche, as the north road could be reached by a slight detour. He saw the Impasse Fautet, and glanced at the drawn blinds of Numéro 2 bis. In one of those rooms, he supposed, Angèle was lying. He had resolved not to seek her out. When the war was over, and he and his wife visited Paris, they could inquire for her. Was she wholly innocent? He hoped so. Somehow, he could not picture her as a spy. She was a disturbing influence, but her nature was not mean. At any rate, her mother’s death would scare her effectually.
It was a fine morning, clear, and not too cold. His spirits rose as the car sped along a good road, after the suburban traffic was left behind. The day’s news was cheering. Verdun was safe, the Armentières “push” was an admitted gain, and the United States had reached the breaking point with Germany. Thank God, all would yet be well, and humanity would arise, blood-stained but triumphant, from the rack of torment on which it had been stretched by Teuton oppression!
“Hit her up!” he said when the car had passed through Crueil, and the next cordon was twenty miles ahead. The chauffeur stepped on the gas, and the pleasant panorama of France flew by like a land glimpsed in dreams.
Every day in far-off Elmsdale Elsie would walk to the White House, or John and Martha would visit the vicarage. If there was no letter, some crumb of comfort could be drawn from its absence. Each morning, in both households, the first haunted glance was at the casualty lists in the newspapers. But none ever spoke of that, and Elsie knew what she never told the old couple—that the thing really to be dreaded was a long white envelope from the War Office, with “O.H.M.S.” stamped across it, for the relatives of fallen officers are warned before the last sad item is printed.