She said nothing. A soldier picked up their luggage and carried it across the platform where another train stood waiting.
And all at once Guild realized that the soldiers around the station and custom-house were not Belgians but Germans. He had forgotten that, and it gave him a distinct shock.
As he and Karen, following the soldier, entered the long room in the custom-house, an officer all in sea-grey from the shrouded spike on his helmet to his ankles came forward and saluted; and Guild coolly lifted his cap.
"Have I by chance the honour of addressing Herr Guild?" asked the officer.
"I am Herr Guild."
"And—gnädiges Fräulein?"—at salute and very rigid.
"Fräulein Girard."
"The gracious young lady has credentials?—a ring, perhaps?"
Karen drew off her glove, slipped the ring from her finger. A soldier held up a lantern; the lieutenant adjusted a single eye-glass, scrutinized the ring, returned it with a tight-waisted bow.
"Papers in order!" he said, turning to the customs officials. "Pass that luggage without inspection!"