“She will suspect, of course.”

“I think not.  And she reads no French.  None whatever.”

Yet Jean’s suspicions were not entirely allayed.  The plan had its advantages.  It was important that Henri receive certain reports, and already the hotel whispered that Henri was of the secret service.  It brought him added deference, of course, but additional danger.

So Jean accepted the plan, but with reservation.  And it was not long afterward that he said to Sara Lee, in French:  “There is a spider on your neck, mademoiselle.”

But Sara Lee only said, “I’m sorry, Jean; you’ll have to speak English to me for a while, I’m afraid.”

And though he watched her for five minutes she did not put her hand to her neck.

However, that was later on.  That afternoon Henri spent an hour with the Minister of War.  And at the end of that time he said:  “Thank you, Baron.  I think you will not regret it.  America must learn the truth, and how better than through those friendly people who come to us to help?”

It is as well to state, however, that he left the Minister of War with the undoubted impression that Miss Sara Lee Kennedy was a spinster of uncertain years.

Sara Lee packed her own suitcase that afternoon, doing it rather nervously because Henri was standing in the room by the window waiting for it.  He had come in as matter-of-factly as Harvey had entered the parlor at Aunt Harriet’s, except that he carried in his arms some six towels, a cake of soap and what looked suspiciously like two sheets.

“The house I have under consideration,” he said, “has little to recommend it but the building, and even that—­The occupants have gone away, and—­you are not a soldier.”

Sara Lee eyed the bundle.

“I don’t need sheets,” she expostulated.

“There are but two.  And Jean has placed blankets in the car.  You must have a pillow also.”

He calmly took one of the hotel pillows from the bed.

“What else?” he asked calmly.  “Cigarettes?  But no, you do not smoke.”

Sara Lee eyed him with something very like despair.

“Aren’t you ever going to let me think for myself?”

“Would you have thought of these?” he demanded triumphantly.  “You—­you think only of soup and tired soldiers.  Some one must think of you.”

And there was a touch of tenderness in his voice.  Sara Lee felt it and trembled slightly.  He was so fine, and he must not think of her that way.  It was not real.  It couldn’t be.  Men were lonely here, where everything was hard and cruel.  They wanted some of the softness of life, and all of kindness and sweetness that she could give should be Henri’s.  But she must make it clear that there could never be anything more.

There was a tightness about her mouth as she folded the white frock.

“I know that garment,” he said boyishly.  “Do you remember the night you wore it?  And how we wandered in the square and made the plan that has brought us together again?”