Reminder, a blow straight between the eyes, took the form of an “express” letter, addressed in Simpson’s crabby handwriting and brought over from the Orderly Room to the crowded Mess where Peter was snatching tea. He slipped it, unopened, into his tunic-pocket, went on talking to Torrington and Bromley.

Torrington, far too ill to go out, but determined not to stop at home, his pale face white with overwork, his eyes pin-pointy, was expostulating about the non-promotion to warrant-rank of his acting Battery Sergeant-Major; Bromley, newly promoted Captain to command “D” Battery, wanted to know how soon they would be doing their firing practice.

All down the long table—Billy Williams and Lodden wrangling at its head—men chattered, cups clinked, flies hurled themselves at the covered jam-pots. From the near-by road, came the jingle of teams returning, the hoot of General Blacklock’s car.

“Time I was getting back,” said Peter.

He passed out through the low ante-room; picked up his cap; clinked across the gravel, up the two wooden stairs into the office. The day’s Orders awaited signature on his desk: he signed them; shouted for Driver Norris, the stenographer; handed him the six copies; sat down; took the letter from his pocket; opened it.

Half way through, he put the crabbed sheets on the table; took out his case and lit a cigar. Then he finished the letter; read it through again.

“Hell,” said our Mr. Jameson. “Hell!” ...

The tale, as related by Simpson, resolved itself into a very ordinary swindle. Hartopp, as the naturalized Hun Hagenburg called himself, had placed a big order for Beckmann cigars; shipped the goods to Amsterdam before payment became due ... and followed them on the next steamer. He had, as he wrote with the sublime effrontery of his race to Simpson, not the slightest intention of returning to England or paying for the goods till Germany had won the war!

For the first time in his business career, Peter knew the inclination to panic. Thought stampeded. Why should this happen? And at such a time? Blast all Germans! Simpson never ought to have trusted Hagenburg. He, Peter, had always warned him that Hagenburg was a wrong ’un. This was the result of serving one’s country. Damn one’s country! Other people didn’t worry about their ruddy country. Look at Rawlings—the patriot of Whitehall. To Hell with Rawlings. ...

He pulled himself together; stuffed away his emotions into that waste-paper basket of the brain which scientists call the subconscious mind. Now, thought came consecutively.

Simpson gave no figure of loss: but the last time Peter was in Lime Street, Hagenburg’s account stood at five thousand. Simpson had spoken of larger orders pending. Therefore the loss must be more than five thousand. Eight? Ten, perhaps. Jamesons could just stand ten. Only just. Simpson appeared panicky. He had better go up to town and see Simpson.

Peter pulled a telegraph pad towards him; wrote a deliberate wire to Simpson’s private address at Harrow; called “Driver Norris!”

A bullet head poked itself in at the doorway, said “Yes, sir.”

“Go and find Driver Jelks. Tell him to take a bicycle and get this wire off sharp. Then go over to the Mess; find Mr. Purves; ask him if he’d mind coming over to see me for a minute. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. Very good, sir.”

A few minutes later Purves, with a mock salute and a drawled “Did’st send for me, P.J.?” came into the room.

“I say, old man, I’ve got to go up to town tomorrow”—it will be noticed that Peter took Stark’s leave for granted—“So you’ll have to cancel that telephone parade of yours.”

“Oh, I say ...”

“Sorry. I’ll be back in the evening. It’s rather important.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.” Purves noticed that P.J.’s voice was a trifle grim.

“Oh, no. Just something in the City that needs my personal attention.”

Neither that night, as the four sat down to their usual set rubber, nor next morning as she drove him in the Crossley to Farnborough Station, did Patricia—put off with the same explanation—suspect the unpalatable truth.