We found ourselves in a big old yellow stone courtyard, chilly and deserted.
The driver ran out and returned, carrying in his arms the long flat seat-cushion from the carriage.
Then the old porter locked the gate and we all gathered round the brave little Flemish driver who was down on his knees now, over the cushion, doing something with a knife.
Next minute he held up a bundle of letters, and then another and then another,—
"And here is your English passport, Madame," Jean said to me.
Unknown to most of us, the driver and Jean, while we waited at Enghien, had made a slit in the cushion, had taken out some stuffing, and put in instead a great mass of letters and papers for Brussels, then they had wired up the slit, turned the cushion upside down, and let us sit on it.
It was rather like sitting on a mine.
Only, like the heroine of the song: "We didn't care, we didn't KNOW!"