I stood at the window of the room into which I had been shown, looking over the flower-beds towards the beautiful landscape. Devonshire has been called the Queen of the English counties, perhaps not without reason. Even my beloved Cornwall could provide no fairer sight than that which spread itself before me. For a coast scenery, Cornwall is unrivalled in the whole of England, but for sweet, rustic loveliness, I had to confess that we had nothing to surpass what I saw that day.

Mile after mile of field, and woodland, in undulating beauty, spread themselves out before me, while away in the distance was a fringe of rocky tors and wild moor-land.

At the bottom of the hill on the side of which the house stood ran a clear, sparkling river, which wound itself away down the valley like a ribbon of silver, hidden only here and there by trees and brushwood.

So enamoured was I that I stood like one entranced, and did not notice the two men who had entered, until St. Mabyn spoke.

Captain Horace Springfield was a tall, dark, lean man from thirty to thirty-five years of age, and from what I learnt afterwards, had spent a great deal of time abroad. Although still young, his intensely black hair was becoming tinged with grey, and his deeply-lined cheeks, and somewhat sunken eyes made him look older than he really was. Although he was home on sick leave, he showed no sign of weakness; his every movement suggested strength and decision.

'Glad to know you,' he said; 'it's a degrading sort of business to go round the country persuading men to do their duty, but since there are so many shirkers in the country, some one's obliged to do it. We shall need all the strength of England, and of the Empire, before we've done, if this job is to be finished satisfactorily; the Germans will need a lot of licking.'

'Still, our chaps are doing very well,' I ventured.

'Oh, yes, they are all right. But naturally these new fellows haven't the staying power of the men in the old Army. They, poor chaps, were nearly all done for in the early days of the war. Still, the Territorials saved the situation.'

'You've seen service in the East?' I ventured.

'Yes, Egypt and India.'

'It was in Egypt that Captain Springfield knew my brother Maurice,' and
George St. Mabyn glanced quickly at him as he spoke.

'The country lost a fine soldier in Maurice St. Mabyn,' said Springfield. 'If he had lived, he'd have been colonel by now; in fact, there is no knowing what he mightn't have become. He had a big mind, and was able to take a broad grasp of things. I'd like to have seen him at the General Headquarters in France. What Maurice St. Mabyn didn't know about soldiering wasn't worth knowing. Still, he's dead, poor chap.'

'Were you with him when he died?' I asked.

'Yes, I was,—that is I was in the show when he was killed. It was one of those affairs which make it hard to forgive Providence. You see, it was only a small skirmish; some mad mullah of a fellow became a paid agitator among the natives. He stirred up a good deal of religious feeling, and quite a number of poor fools joined him. By some means, too, he obtained arms for them. St. Mabyn was ordered to put down what the English press called "a native rebellion." He was able to do it easily for although he hadn't many men, he planned our attack so perfectly that we blew them into smithereens in a few hours.'

'And you were in it?' I asked.

'Yes,' and then in a few words he described how Maurice St. Mabyn was killed.

'It's jolly hard when a friend dies like that,' I said awkwardly.

'Yes,' was Springfield's reply, 'it is. Of course it is one of the risks of the Army, and I am sure that Maurice would have gone into it, even if he had known what would take place. He was that sort. In a way, too, it was a glorious death. By his pluck and foresight he made the whole job easy, and put down what might have been a big rebellion. But that isn't quite how I look at it. I lost a pal, the best pal a man ever had. His death bowled me over, too, and I wasn't fit for anything for months. Poor old Maurice!'

I must confess that I was moved by the man's evident feeling. He had not struck me as an emotional man,—rather, at first, he gave me the impression of being somewhat hard and callous. His deep-set eyes, high cheek-bones, and tall gaunt form, suggested one of those men who was as hard as nails, and who could see his own mother die without a quiver of his lips.

'Forgive me, Luscombe,' he said, 'I'm not a sloppy kind of chap as a rule, and sentiment isn't my strong point. I have seen as much hard service as few men, and death has not been a rare thing to me. I have been in one or two little affairs out in India, and seen men die fast. It is no make-belief over in France, either, although I have seen no big engagement there. But to lose a pal is—— I say, shall we change the subject?'

After this, we went out into the grounds, and talked of anything rather than war or soldiering, and I must confess that Springfield talked well. There was a kind of rough strength about him which impressed me. That he was on good terms with George St. Mabyn was evident, for they called each other by their Christian names, and I judged that their friendship was of long standing.

After I had been there a little over an hour, and was on the point of telling the chauffeur to take me back to Granitelands, George St. Mabyn informed me that he and Springfield were going there to lunch. I was rather surprised at this, as no mention of it had been made before, and I wondered why, if they had arranged to be at Granitelands, I should have been asked to visit them that morning. Still, I did not give the matter a second thought, and before one o'clock St. Mabyn appeared in the seventh heaven of delight, for he was walking around the grounds of Granitelands with Norah Blackwater by his side.

I left soon after lunch, but before I went I had a few minutes' chat with Lorna Bolivick.

'You will remember your promise, won't you?' and she looked eagerly into my face as she spoke.

'What promise?'

'You know. The promise, you made about that man, Paul Edgecumbe. I want you to promise something else, too.'

'What is that?'

'I want you to let me know when you have found him.'

'What possible interest can you have in him, Miss Bolivick?'

'I only know that I am interested in him; I couldn't sleep last night for thinking about him. It's—it's just awful, isn't it? Do you like Captain Springfield?'

'I neither like nor dislike him. I only met him an hour or two ago, and in all probability I shall never see him again.'

'Oh, but you will. You are a friend of Sir Roger Granville's, aren't you?'

'Scarcely. I happen to have been brought into contact with him because of this work I am doing, and he has been very kind to me. That is all. I have never been here before, and probably I shall never come again.'

'Oh, yes, you will. Sir Roger likes you, so does Lady Granville; they said so last night after you went to bed. I am sure you will come here again.'

'I shall be awfully glad if I do, especially if it will lead to my seeing you.'

'Don't be silly,' and she spoke with all the freedom of a child; 'all the same, I'd like you to meet my father. He'd like to know you, too. We only live about five miles away. Ours is a dear old house; it is close by the village of South Petherwin. Can you remember that?'

'If I have to write you about Paul Edgecumbe, will that find you?'

'Yes. You needn't put Bolivick, which is the name of the house, because every one who is called Bolivick lives at Bolivick, don't you see? I shall expect to hear from you directly you find him. You are sure you won't forget?'

I laughed at the girl's insistence. 'To make it impossible,' I said, 'I will put it down in my diary. Here we are. May 29,—you see there is a good big space for writing. "I give my promise, that as soon as I have found the man, Paul Edgecumbe, I will write Miss Lorna Bolivick and acquaint her of the fact."'

'That's right. Now then, sign your name.'

I laughingly did as she desired.

'I am going to witness it,' she said, and there was quite a serious tone in her voice. She took my pencil, and wrote in a somewhat crude, schoolgirl hand,—'Witnessed by Lorna Bolivick, Bolivick, South Petherwin.' 'You can't get rid of it now,' she said.

While she was writing, I happened to look up, and saw Norah Blackwater, who was accompanied by George St. Mabyn and Captain Springfield.

'What deep plot are you engaged in?' asked Norah Blackwater.

'It's only some private business Mr. Luscombe and I are transacting,' she replied, whereupon the others laughed and passed on.

'Do you know what that Captain Springfield makes me think of?' she asked.

'No,' I replied.

'Snakes,' she said.

As I watched the captain's retreating form, I shook my head.

'I can't help it. Have you noticed his eyes? There now, put your diary in your pocket, and don't forget what you've promised.'

'One thing is certain,' I said to myself, as I was driven along to the station that afternoon, 'my suspicions about George St. Mabyn are groundless. What a fool a man is when he lets his imagination run away with him! Here was I, building up all sorts of mad theories, and then I meet a man who knows nothing about my thoughts, but who destroys my theories in half a dozen sentences. Whoever Paul Edgecumbe is, it is certain he is not Maurice St. Mabyn.'

Several months passed, and still I heard nothing of Paul Edgecumbe. I made all sorts of inquiries, and did my best to find him, all without success, until I came to the conclusion that the man had not joined the Army at all. Then, suddenly, I ceased thinking about him. My recruiting work came to an end, and I was pitchforked into the active work of the Army. As I have said, I knew practically nothing about soldiering, and the little I had learnt was wellnigh useless, because, being merely an officer in the old Volunteers, my knowledge was largely out of date. Still, there it was. New schemes for obtaining soldiers were on foot, and as a commission had been given to me, and there being no need for me at the University, I became a soldier, not only in name, but in actuality. I suppose I was not altogether a failure as a battalion officer; indeed, I was told I picked up my duties with remarkable ease. Anyhow, I worked very hard. And then, before I had time to realize what had happened to me, I was ordered to the front.

Some one has described life at the front as two weeks of monotony and one week of hell. I do not say it is quite like that, although it certainly gives a hint of the truth. When one is in the trenches, it is often a very ghastly business, so ghastly that I will not attempt to describe it. On the other hand, life behind the lines is dreadfully monotonous, especially in the winter months, when the whole of our battle-line is a sea of mud and the quintessence of discomfort. Still, I did not fare badly. I was engaged in two small skirmishes, from which my battalion came out well, and although, during the winter of 1915-1916, things could not be described as lively, a great deal of useful work was done.

Then something took place which bade fair to put an end to my activities for the duration of the war, and which calamity was averted in what I cannot help describing now as a miraculous way. I need not go into the matter at length; it was a little affair as far as I was concerned, but was intended as a preliminary to something far more serious, but of which I had no knowledge. It was on a dark night, I remember, and my work was to raid a bit of the Boches' trenches, and do all the damage possible. Preparations had been carefully made, and as far as we could gather, everything promised success. I had twenty men under my command, and early in the morning, about an hour before daylight, we set out to do it. Everything seemed favourable to our enterprise. The German searchlights were not at work, and the bit of No Man's Land which we had to cross did not seem to be under enemy observation.

I was given to understand that my little stunt was only one of several others which was to take place, and so, although naturally our nerves were a bit strung up when we crawled over the parapets, we did not anticipate a difficult job.

As a matter of fact, however, the Boches had evidently been warned of our intentions, and had made their plans accordingly. We were allowed to cross the No Man's Land, which at this spot was about three hundred yards wide, and were nearing the place from which we could commence operations, when, without warning, a number of the enemy attacked us. The odds were against us at the very start; they had double our numbers, and were able to take advantage of a situation strongly in their favour.

Evidently some one on our side had either conveyed information to them, or their Intelligence Department was better served than we imagined. Anyhow, there it was. Instead of entering their trenches, and taking a number of prisoners, we had the worst of it. Still, we made a good fight, and I imagine their losses were greater than ours, in spite of their superiority of numbers. Most of our fellows managed to get away, but I was not so fortunate. Just at the first streak of dawn, I found myself a prisoner; while four of the men whom I had brought suffered a similar fate.

It was no use my trying to do anything, they out-numbered us several times over, and I was led away to what I suppose they regarded as a place of safety, until reports could be made concerning us.

I knew German fairly well, although I spoke it badly, and I tried to get some information as to the plans concerning me; but I could get no definite reply. It was bitterly cold, and in spite of all the Boches had done to make their condition comfortable, it was no picnic. Mud and slush abounded, and I heard the German soldiers complain one to another that it was ten hours since they had tasted any food.

Then, suddenly, there was a tremendous boom, followed by a terrific explosion, and although I was not wounded, I was wellnigh stunned. A British shell had fallen close to where we were, and, as far as I could judge, several Boches had been accounted for. A few seconds later, there was a regular tornado.

As I have said our work that night was intended to be preparatory to a big bombardment, and I had the misfortune to learn from the German trenches what a British bombardment meant.

'Gott in Himmel!' said one of my captors, 'let's get away from this.' Whereupon I was hurried on to what I supposed to be a safer place. A few minutes later, I was descending what seemed to me a concrete stairway, until I came to what struck me as a great cave, capable of holding two or three hundred men.

As I entered, a German officer looked up from some papers he had been examining, and saw us.

'What have you here?' he asked.

'English prisoners, sir.'

'Prisoners! what use have we for prisoners? Better put a bullet into their brains. They will mean only so many more mouths to feed.'

'One is an officer, sir,' and the soldier nodded toward me.

'Ah well, he may be useful. But I have no time to deal with him now. Himmel! what's that?'

It was the noise of a tremendous explosion, and the whole place shook as though there were an earthquake.

The captain gave some rapid instructions which I did not hear, and then hurried away.