“I can go and find out,” he said quietly.  “It is possible, though I do not see how.”  He smiled.  “They are, I think, only drying themselves at our expense.  It is a bit of German humor.”

But the cry of “Calais in a month!” was in the air, and undoubtedly there had been renewed activity along the German Front near the sea.  The second question to be answered was dependent on the first.

Had the Germans, as Henri said, merely shifted the water, by some clever engineering, to the Belgian trenches, or was there some bigger thing on hand?  What, for instance, if they were about to attempt to drain the inundation, smash the Belgian line, and march by the Dunkirk road to Calais?

So, that night while Henri jested about Pierre’s right elbow and watched Sara Lee for a smile, he had difficult work before him.

Sometime near midnight he slipped away.  Jean was waiting in the street, and wrung the boy’s hand.

“I could go with you,” he said rather wistfully.

“You don’t speak their ugly tongue.”

“I could be mute—­shell shock.  You could be helping me back.”

But Henri only held his hand a moment and shook his head.

“You would double the risk, and—­what good would it do?”

“Two pistols are better than one.”

“I have two pistols, my friend,” said Henri, and turned the corner of the building, past the boards Rene had built in, toward the house of the mill.  But once out of Jean’s sight he stopped a moment, his hand resting against that frail wall to Sara Lee’s room.  It was his good-by to her.

For three days Jean stayed in the village.  He slept at the mill, but he came for his meals to the little house.  Once he went to Dunkirk and brought out provisions and the mail, including Sara Lee’s monthly allowance.  But mostly he sat in the mill house and waited.  He could not read.

“You do not eat at all, Jean,” Sara Lee said to him more than once.  And twice she insisted that he was feverish, and placed a hand that was somewhat marred with much peeling of vegetables, on his forehead.

“I am entirely well, mademoiselle,” he would say, and draw back.  He had anxieties enough just now without being reminded by the touch of a woman’s hand of all that he had lost.

Long before that Sara Lee had learned not to question Jean about Henri’s absences.  Even his knowledge, now, that she knew something of Henri’s work, did not remove the barrier.  So Sara Lee waited, as did Jean, but more helplessly.  She knew something was wrong, but she had not Jean’s privilege of going at night to the trenches and there waiting, staring over the gray water with its ugly floating shadows, for Henri to emerge from the flood.

Something rather forced and mechanical there was those days in her work.  Her smile was rather set.  She did not sleep well.  And one night she violated Henri’s orders and walked across the softened fields to beyond the poplar trees.