The man was apparently much relieved. He made a frank, manly apology for his intrusion, looked appealingly at Lorraine, and said, with a laugh: "The fact is, I'm astray in the wrong camp. I rode out from the Spicheren and got mixed in the roads, and first I knew I fell in with Frossard's Corps, and I can't get away. I thought you were an Englishman; you're American, it seems, and really I may venture to feel that there is hope for me—may I not?"
"Why, yes," said Jack; "whatever I can do, I'll do gladly."
"Then let me observe without hesitation," continued the man, smiling under his crisp mustache, "that I'm in search of a modest dinner and a shelter of even more modest dimensions. I'm a war correspondent, unattached just at present, but following the German army. My name is Archibald Grahame."
At the name of the great war correspondent Jack stared, then impulsively held out his hand.
"Aha!" said Grahame, "you must be a correspondent, too. Ha! I thought I was not wrong."
He bowed again to Lorraine, who returned his manly salute very sweetly. "If," she thought, "Jack is inclined to be nice to this sturdy young man in tweeds, I also will be as nice as I can."
"My name is Marche—Jack Marche," said Jack, in some trepidation. "I am not a correspondent—that is, not an active one."
"You were at Sadowa, and you've been in Oran with Chanzy," said Grahame, quickly.
Jack flushed with pleasure to find that the great Archibald Grahame had heard of him.
"We must take Mr. Grahame up-stairs at once—must we not?—if he is hungry," suggested Lorraine, whose tender heart was touched at the thought of a hungry human being.