carried these things through the crowded hall and up the stairs to his own room, afraid to leave the children very long.
Ronnie was standing at the window, staring out into the street. 'There's lots and lots of camions and motors at the station,' he said excitedly. 'And guns, too. Real guns, with motors pulling them! May we go down and see?'
'Not now,' said the old man. 'It's time you were in bed.'
He gave the children their supper of cakes, and milk out of a tooth-glass; Sheila seemed cooler, and drank her milk with very little coaxing. Then it was time to put Ronnie to bed in the big bed beside his sister. The little boy asked: 'Where are my pyjamas?'
Howard said. 'At the station. We'll put you into bed in your shirt for a start, just for fun. Then I'll go and get your pyjamas.'
He made a game of it with them, and tucked them up carefully one at each side of the big bed, with a bolster down the middle. 'Now you be good,' he said. 'I'm just going to get the luggage. I'll leave the light on. You won't be afraid?'
Sheila did not answer; she was already nearly asleep, curled up, flushed and tousled on the pillow. Ronnie said sleepily: 'May we see the guns and the camions tomorrow?'
'If you're good.'
He left them, and went down to the hall. The restaurant and the cafe were more crowded than ever; in the throng there was no hope at all of getting anyone to help him with the luggage. He pushed his way to the door and went out into the street, bewildered at the atmosphere of the town, and more than a little worried.
He found the station yard thronged with lorries and guns, with a few light tanks. Most of the guns were horse-drawn; the teams stood in their harness by the limbers as if ready to move on at any moment. Around them lorries rumbled in the darkness, with much melodious shouting in the broad tones of the southern French.
The station, again, was thronged with troops. They covered all the platforms, smoking and spitting wearily, squatting on the dirty asphalt in the half-light, resting their backs against anything that offered. Howard crossed to the arrival platform and searched painstakingly for his luggage among the recumbent forms. He found the tin case with his rods and he found the small attache case; the suitcase had vanished, nor could he discover any trace of the registered luggage.
He had not expected any more, but the loss of the suitcase was a serious matter. He knew that when he got to Paris he would find the registered luggage waiting for him in the consigne, were it six months later. But the suitcase had apparently been stolen; either that, or it had been placed in safe keeping by some zealous railway official. In the circumstances that did not seem probable. He would look for it in the morning; in the meantime they must all get on without pyjamas for the night. He made his way back to the hotel, and up to the bedroom again.
Both children were sleeping; Sheila was hot and restless and had thrown off most of her coverings. He spread them over her more lightly, and went down to the restaurant to see if he could get a meal for himself. A tired waiter refused point-blank to serve him, there was no food left in the hotel. Howard bought a small bottle of brandy in the cafe, and went up to the bedroom again, to dine off brandy and water, and his length of bread.
Presently he stretched himself to sleep uneasily in the arm-chair, desperately worried over what the next day would bring. One fact consoled him; he had his rods, quite safe.
Dawn came at five and found him still dozing uneasily in the chair, half covered by the dust-cover from the bed. The children woke soon after that and began chattering and playing in the bed; the old man stirred and sat up stiffly in his chair. He rubbed a hand over his face; he was feeling very ill. Then the children claimed his attention and he got up and put them right.
There was no chance of any further sleep; already there was much tramping to and fro in the hotel. In the station yard outside his window, lorries, tanks, and guns were on the move; the grinding of the caterpillar tracks, the roar of exhausts, the chink of harness and the stamping of the teams made up a melody of war. He turned back to the children; Sheila was better, but still obviously unwell. He brought the basin to the bed and washed her face and arms; then he combed her hair with the small pocket comb that he had found in the attache case, one of the few small toilet articles he had. He took her temperature, under the arm for fear that she might chew on the thermometer.
It came out a degree above normal; he tried vainly to recall how much he should add on for the arm. In any case, it didn't matter much; she'd have to stay in bed. He got Ronnie up, washed him, and set him to dress himself; then he sponged over his own face and rang the bell for the femme de chambre. He was unshaven, but that could wait.
She came presently, and exclaimed when she saw the chair and coverlet: 'Monsieur has slept so?' she said. 'But there was room in bed for all of you!'
He felt a little foolish. 'The little one is ill,' he said. 'When a child is ill, she should have room. I was quite comfortable.'
Her eyes softened, and she clucked her tongue again. 'Tonight I will find another mattress,' she said. 'Be assured, monsieur, I will arrange something.'
He ordered coffee and rolls and jam; she went away and came back presently with a loaded tray. As she set it down on the dressing-table, he ventured: 'I must go out this morning to look for my luggage, and to buy a few things. I will take the little boy with me; I shall not be very long. Would you listen for the little girl, in case she cries?'
The woman beamed at him. 'Assuredly. But it will not be necessary for monsieur to hurry. I will bring la petite Rose, and she can play with the little sick one.'
Howard said: 'Rose?'
He stood for ten minutes, listening to a torrent of family history. Little Rose was ten years old, the daughter of the woman's brother, who was in England. No doubt monsieur had met her brother? Tenois was the name, Henri Tenois. He was in London, the wine waiter at the Hotel Dickens, in Russell Square. He was a widower, so the femme de chambre made a home for la petite Rose. And so on, minute after minute.
Howard had to exercise a good deal of tact to get rid of her before his coffee cooled.
An hour later, spruce and shaved and leading Ronnie by the hand, he went out into the street. The little boy, dressed in beret, overcoat, and socks, looked typically French; by contrast Howard in his old tweed suit looked very English. For ten minutes he fulfilled his promise in the market square, letting the child drink in his fill of camions, guns, and tanks. They stopped by one caterpillar vehicle, smaller than the rest.
'Celui-ci,' said Ronnie clearly, 'c'est un char de combat.'
The driver smiled broadly. 'That's right,' he said in French.
Howard said in French: 'I should have called it a tank, myself.'
'No, no, no,' the little boy said earnestly. 'A tank is much bigger, monsieur. Truly.'
The driver laughed. 'I've got one myself just like that, back in Nancy. He'll be driving one of these before he's much older, le petit chou.'
They passed on, and into the station. For hah0 an hour they searched the platforms, still thronged with the tired troops, but found no sign of the lost suitcase. Nor could the overworked and worried officials give any help. At the end of that time Howard gave it up; it would be better to buy a few little things for the children that he could carry in the attache case when they moved on. The loss of a suitcase was not an unmixed disaster for a man with a weak heart in time of war.
They left the station and walked up towards the centre of the town to buy pyjamas for the children. They bought some purple sweets called cassis to take back with them for Sheila, and they bought a large green picture- book called Bahar the Elephant. Then they turned back to the hotel.
Ronnie said presently: 'There's a motor-car from England, monsieur. What sort is it?'
The old man said: 'I don't suppose I can tell you that.' But he looked across the road to the filling- station. It was a big open touring car, roughly sprayed dull green all over, much splashed and stained with mud. It was evidently weeks smee it had had a wash. Around it, two or three men were bustling to get it filled with petrol, oil, and water. One of them was manipulating the air hose at the wheels.
One of the men seemed vaguely familiar to the old man. He stopped and stared across the road, trying to place where they had met. Then he remembered; it was in his club six months before. The man was Roger Dickinson; something to do with a newspaper. The Morning Record - that was it. He was quite a well-known man in
