"Mes pauvre chiens!" she keeps exclaiming.
And now a motor car approaches from the direction of Lierre, with an English officer sitting beside the chauffeur.
I tell him the story of the dogs and ask what can be done.
The officer does not reply.
He almost looks as if he has not heard.
His calm, cool face shows little sign of anything at all.
He merely turns his car round and flashes away along the white tree-shadowed and cannon-lined road that he has just traversed.
Ten minutes go by, then another ten.
Then back along the road flashes the grey car.
And there again is Colonel Farquharson, cool, calm, and unperturbed.