"Where is he?"
"He is in bed."
"Go to him and tell him that a shell has just fallen on the Bank of Anvers. Tell him to rise and come out at once. He is a Bank Official and he must come and help to save the papers before the bank is burned down! Tell him Monsieur M., the Manager, came for him."
Swing, and the Bank Manager has gone through the door again out into that black and red shrieking night.
Swing again, and three people hurry in, three Belgians, father, mother and a little fair-haired girlie, whom they hold by each hand, while the father cradles a big box of hard cash under one arm.
"The shells are falling all around our home!" they say.
The porter points to the restaurant door.
"Merci bien," and "Je vous remerci beaucoup," murmur father and mother.
They vanish into the dark, unlit restaurant with its white table-cloths making pale points athward the stygian blackness of the huge room.
Then an Englishman comes down the stairs behind me, flapping his Burberry rainproof overcoat. He is a War-Correspondent.