Day waned; died. Bombardier Michael came in; cleared away the tea-mugs. The telephone on the shelf buzzed impatiently. Purves went to it.

“It’s Torrington,” he announced, “and he wants to know if they’re to go on firing at the Pope’s Nose.”

“Tell him, yes,” said Stark, “till further orders.”

“Are we going to move out, sir?” asked Purves, coming back to the table. “My servant says he’s had orders to pack up my kit.”

“He has. My orders.” The tone of the Weasel’s voice stifled discussion. Again, the telephone buzzed.

“You answer it, Jameson.”

Peter picked up the receiver; heard the usual: “Brigade Major Seventh Don Ack wishes to speak to the Adjutant.” “You’re through, sir.” Then the usual quiet voice, “Oh, is that you, Jameson? About tonight, we want you to fire shrapnel on those cross-roads. Same as.... Here, half-a-minute. ... Hang on, will you? ...” A long pause. “Is your Colonel there? Do you mind asking him to speak?”

“They want you, sir,” said Peter across the room.

“I guessed as much.” Stark came over; took the instrument.

The four men heard him say: “It can’t be done under four hours....” Pause. “Yes, just like them, isn’t it? ... Le Rutoire Farm.... All right.... You might send those orders along, will you? ... And I’m one gun short.” Then he put the receiver back on the shelf; turned round; and remarked with a peculiar smile: “Well, gentlemen, we’re for it this time!”