As she spoke, Mélanie, Aimée’s French maid, entered the room, saying:
“A gentleman wishes to speak to M’sieur le Baron on the telephone. Will you speak, Mademoiselle?” she asked.
“Who is he?”
“The name he gave was Huart, Mademoiselle.”
“Huart,” exclaimed the Baroness. “That is surely the name of the manager of the Sirault Ironworks at Liège. Go and speak to him, Aimée.”
The girl descended to her father’s small business-room situated in the base of one of the round-slated turrets of the castle, and took up the telephone-receiver from the table.
“Hello?” she asked.
“Is the Baron there?” demanded a man’s rough voice.
“No, m’sieur. But I am Mademoiselle de Neuville. Can I give him any message? He is in Brussels, and will, I think, be here this evening.”
“I am Huart, speaking from the works at Liège. War has broken out.”