she packed it first.

"You never know what's going to happen over there," she asserted. "They
do say that royalties are everywhere, going about like common people.
You'd better have a good frock with you."

She had an air of subdued excitement, and after she had established the
fact that not only the white frock but slippers and hose also would go
in she went to the door and glanced up and down the passage. Then she
closed the door.

"There was queer goings-on here last night, miss," she said cautiously.
"Spies!"

"Oh, no!" cried Sara Lee.

"Spies," she repeated. "A man and a woman, pretending to be Belgian
refugees. They took them away at daylight. I expect by now they've
been shot."

Sara Lee ate very little breakfast that morning. All through England
it was confidently believed that spies were shot on discovery, a theory
that has been persistent--and false, save at the battle line--since
the beginning of the war. And Henri's plan assumed new proportions.
Suppose she made her attempt and failed? Suppose they took her for a
spy, and that tomorrow's sun found her facing a firing squad? Not,
indeed, that she had ever heard of a firing squad, as such. But she
had seen spies shot in the movies. They invariably stood in front of
a brick wall, with the hero in the center.