vil of Liege.
Staid old Europe might be dissolving even then in a cloud of
high-explosive gas.

The scheme of things was all awry. One Englishman gave up the riddle. He
turned on his heel, and lit one of the cheap cigars purchased in
Aix-la-Chapelle less than forty-eight hours ago!

CHAPTER X

ANDENNE

Madame Joos was old for her fifty years, and heavy withal. Hers was not
the finer quality of human clay which hardens in the fire of adversity.
She became ill, almost seriously ill, and had to be nursed back into
good health again during nine long days. And long these days were, the
longest Dalroy had ever known. To a man of his temperament, enforced
inactivity was anathema in any conditions; a gnawing doubt that he was
not justified in remaining in Verviers at all did not improve matters.
Monsieur Garnier, the cure, was a frequent though unobtrusive visitor.
He doctored the invalid, and brought scraps of accurate information
which filtered through the far-flung screen of Uhlans and the dense
lines of German infantry and guns. Thus the fugitives knew when and
where the British Expeditionary Force actually landed on the Continent.
They heard of the gradual sapping of the defences of Liege, until Fort
Loncin fell, and, with it, as events were to prove, the shield which had
protected Belgium for nearly a fortnight. The respite did not avail King
Albert and his heroic people in so far as the occupation and ravaging of
their beautiful country was concerned; but calm-eyed historians in
years to come will appraise at its true value the breathing-space,
slight though it was, thus secured for France and England.

Dalroy found it extraordinarily difficult to sift the true from the
false in the crop of conflicting rumours. In the first instance, German
legends had to be discounted. From the outset of the campaign the
Kaiser's armies were steadily regaled with accounts of phenomenal
successes _elsewhere_. Thus, when four army corps, commanded now by Von
Kluck, were nearly demoralised by the steadfast valour of General Leman
and his stalwarts, the men were rallied by being told that the Crown
Prince was smashing his way to Paris through Nancy and Verdun. Prodigies
were being performed in Poland and the North Sea, and London was burnt
by Zeppelins almost daily. Nor did Belgian imagination lag far behind in
this contest of unveracity. British and French troops were marching to
the Meuse by a dozen roads; the French raid in