Two evenings later, when Francis Gordon arrived—in a purloined Vauxhall car—to dinner, he found the half-Brigade settled down to desultory action.

Already the little house at Annequin, was linked by black “D. 5.” telephone-wires to 7th Artillery Headquarters way back in Sailly-La-Bourse, to the as-yet-unoccupied battle-headquarters at the chÂteau of Noyelles a mile on their right. Forward to the gun-pits, and backward to the top of the great Fosse where Straker had established an observation-post in one of the many tunnels burrowed through the slag, ran other wires—very red and new on their supporting poles. Already Lodden and Torrington had spied out the dun plain, the white chalk-furrows; talked learnedly of Hun strong-points—the Pope’s Nose, the Hohenzollern Redoubt.

The first “post” had arrived, been sorted eagerly on the bare floor of the Mess-room; Mr. Black had discovered whence to draw rations; guns had barked away enough ammunition to necessitate fresh supplies from Billy Williams’ subaltern Murphy, in charge of the Ammunition Column Section behind Fosse Six; men had seen their first shells crash to ground on the Vermelles road.

But as yet—though nominally attached to another Brigade for “training in trench-warfare”—Stark and his two batteries were nobody’s children. No infantry asked them for retaliation; no General panicked round their ammunition-dumps. And they were too far behind the trenches to attract hostile shell-fire.

“So far”—as Peter explained to his cousin, in the draggled garden—“a picnic!”

“You wait till September the twenty-fifth!” said Francis.

“Oh, is that the date?”

“Didn’t you know? Why every housemaid in BÉthune can tell you that much.”

It was then September the eleventh!

The two cousins passed into the Mess-room. M. de Morency, a tall French interpreter, black-moustachioed, the bronze sphinx of his calling on the lapel of his khaki tunic, had arrived the day before; stood superintending the lighting of the lamp, Bombardier Michael’s arrangement of the dinner-table.

Peter introduced his cousin, and the two began a voluble conversation in slangy French. Stark stamped down from his upstairs bed-room; Purves and the Doctor arrived together.

“Lodden and Torrington are late.” The Weasel looked at his watch. “Phone down for them, will you, Purves?”

The Balliol man stepped to a tiny, black telephone on a shelf in the corner, began buzzing on the key. “Is that you, Beer Battery.... Oh, is Captain Torrington there? Just left for H.Q.—with Major Lodden. Thanks.”

Shortly afterwards, the two arrived; and dinner began with “Gong” soups served in enamel mugs. Followed tinned salmon, mayonnaise sauce and lettuce salad prepared by Caroline, a large ration joint of beef, baked potatoes, rice-pudding. They drank sparingly, from newly-bought glasses, of white wine. Talk ran steadily on the forthcoming operations.

“I hear we shall use gas for the first time,” announced the interpreter.

“And a damned mess we shall probably make of it.” Lodden wiped black moustaches contemptuously with his paper napkin. “Don’t you think so, Gordon?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about actual warfare,” remarked Francis, “you see I’m on the Staff.”

Everybody laughed.

Said Colonel Stark: “If you ex-civilians had been willing to pay for a decent-sized Army in peace-time, you might have had officers capable of managing large bodies of troops in war.”

“Then you admit, Colonel” ... began Lodden.

“My dear Major, I admit nothing. Let’s have some port. Any coffee, Morency?”

“Mais oui, mon Colonel.”

Peter produced a newly arrived box of cigars; the bare room soon grew hazy with smoke. The gaffer and Caroline, dragging a scrofulous boy by the hand, dived down through the timbered doorway to their bedroom in the cellars. Outside, it was very still—only, every now and then, a gun boomed faintly.

Torrington had drawn his chair towards the two cousins; Purves joined them, and Morency. Stark, Lodden and the Doctor kept to the head of the table.

“Damn good fighter, the Boche,” remarked Torrington, Á propos of nothing in particular.

“Damned swines!” The remark seemed to burst from Francis’ lips. “If you knew as much about them as I do....”

“What do you know about them, young man?” put in the Weasel from the head of the table.

“Well, sir”—an undercurrent of emotion rippled the controlled voice—“I don’t claim to know much; but I’ve spent six of the last twelve months in their country.”

“You’ve what!” A simultaneous gasp ran round the room. Francis repeated his preposterous assertion: “I was staying at the Bristol in Berlin just after they beat the Russians at Tannenberg. I saw the crowds round the huge war-maps in Unter den Linden. I’ve seen the Zeppelin sheds at Tondern. And I’ve seen the camps where they keep our prisoners.” His voice dominated the room: nobody else spoke, wanted to speak. “I don’t pretend to be a fighting soldier. It isn’t my job. But when I hear people talk about the Hun as a clean fighter; when I think of the things I’ve seen him do....” He bit off the words, fell silent.

“Then you were in Germany when war broke out,” said the Weasel, after a pause.

“No, sir. I got in afterwards....”

Peter looked at his cousin; remembered old days, remembered the tango-dancing, night-club-haunting Francis of Curzon Street; marvelled that this should be the same man. For the tale Francis told that night—in half sentences, not boastingly but as a soldier discloses his job—carried conviction. Of himself, of how he had been hidden for three weeks in Amsterdam, coached in his part, smuggled not once but many times and in varied disguises across the frontier—Francis told nothing. He contented himself with bare statements. At Essen, in January, he had worked for a month....

“What on?” interrupted Stark, still doubtful if this young Staff officer were not joking.

“A new patent carriage for the 77 field-gun, sir.”

“What part of it?”

“Principally the cradle for the buffer. ‘RÜck-rohr-lafetten-auflauf,’ they call it.”

Stark, technical expert, asked no more doubting questions that evening: and Francis went on talking for nearly half-an-hour.

“But how the devil did you get into the prison-camps?” asked Lodden.

“As a priest,” said Francis simply, “an Austrian priest. That was my last trip. I’m not going back again if I can help it.”

“I should think not,” from Torrington, “you must have been scared stiff.”

“Scared. Lord, I should think so. But the worst moment I ever had was in the Winter Garden at Berlin. You don’t know it of course. It’s a kind of theatre with stalls in front, and behind—on a big raised daÏs—tables for dinner-parties. I was in the promenade, right at the back. And they sang their old Hymn of Hate. Phew! It made me sweat, absolutely sweat with funk. Five thousand of them—on their feet—roaring like, like hyenas....”

At half-past ten, the party broke up; Lodden, and Torrington (who had refused to desert his battery dug-out for a comfortable room at Headquarters) returning across the fields to their gun-pits: Purves, the Doctor and Morency retiring to bed.

“Do you mind if Peter drives home with me, sir?” asked Francis, “I’ll send him back in the car.”

“All right,”—the little red-headed soldier looked up from his newspaper—“I’ll hold the fort till my Adjutant comes back.”

The two cousins strolled out, found the car waiting. “All quiet on the Beuvry road?” asked Francis of the chauffeur.

“There were a few shells while you were at dinner, sir.”

“Well, don’t switch on your headlights till we’re through Beuvry.”

They climbed into the comfortable limousine; and purred off through Annequin village, shuttered and asleep; swung to the west.

“Heard from Pat?” asked Francis.

“Yesterday. She’s with her father.”

“Let me see, that’s Harley Street, isn’t it? I’ll drop her a line myself tomorrow. One can’t write much on these ‘hush’ jobs. I’ve been in Spain, the last three months. By the way, Peter, you’re grown very silent since I saw you last....”

Peter lit a cigar, and his cousin saw, in the light of the match, new lines on the firm face, a trace of gray in the dark hair: “Oh, I’ve been having a pretty thin time, one way and the other.”

“Money?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s Arthur?”

“Arthur came home. He’s in the R.F.C.^[8] somewhere or other. Rummy devil. Rather like you. Never writes letters.”

They came without mishap into the great Place of BÉthune; and Peter saw, black by moonlight, round holes in the shining roofs—sole sign of long-range bombardment.

The car stopped. “This is my billet. Come in and have a drink, old man.”

They passed up a flight of stairs; Francis drew matches from his pocket; lit candles on the mantelpiece. Between them—like a saint’s picture on a shrine—stood a photograph, a brand-new photograph of Beatrice Cochrane!