The morning the letter was published an elderly gentleman, a retired officer of the navy, called at my rooms.

His son, he said, was an aviator, and for a month of him no word had come.

His mother was distressed.

Could I describe the air-ship I had seen?
I was not keen to play the messenger of ill tidings, so I tried to gain time.
"What make of aeroplane does your son drive ?" I asked.
As though preparing for a blow, the old gentleman drew himself up, and looked me steadily in the eyes.
"A Bleriot monoplane," he said.
I was as relieved as though his boy were one of my own kinsmen.
"The air-ship I saw," I told him, "was an Avro biplane!" Of the two I appeared much the more pleased.
The retired officer bowed.
"I thank you," he said.

"It will be good news for his mother." "But why didn't you go to the War Office ?" I asked.
He reproved me firmly.
"They have asked us not to question them," he said, "and when they are working for all I have no right to embarrass them with my personal trouble." As the chance of obtaining credentials with the British army appeared doubtful, I did not remain in London, but at once crossed to Belgium.
Before the Germans came, Brussels was an imitation Paris-- especially along the inner boulevards she was Paris at her best.