For five wild incredible days I remained in Antwerp, watching the German occupation; and then at last, I found my opportunity to escape over the borders into Holland.
There came the great day when François managed to borrow a motor car and took me out through the Breda Gate to Putte in Holland.
Good-bye to Ada, good-bye to Henri, good-bye to Lenore, Jeanette and la grandmère!
I knew now that Madame X. could be trusted to the death. She had proved it in an unmistakable way. In my bag I had her Belgian passport and her German one also. I was passing now as François' wife. The photograph of Lenore stamped on the passport was sufficiently like myself to enable me to pass the German sentinels, and Lenore, dear, sweet, lovable Lenore, had coached me diligently in the pronunciation of her queer Flemish name—which was not Lenore, of course.
As for my own English passport, Monsieur X. went several times to the young Danish Doctor asking for it on my behalf.
The Dane refused to give it up. "How do I know," said he, "that you will restore it to the lady?"
The Danish Doctor's note.
Finally Monsieur X. suggested that he should leave it for me at the American Consulate.