Dennis picked himself up with a sob of bitter disappointment, as he realised that the dead mare, which had carried him for a brief moment among his own people, had now landed him once more a good mile within the enemy's lines.

His first act was to bury the sergeant's sword in the earth; his next to reload his Webley revolver; and then, spying a gap in the rim of the crater above him, he clambered up, to find himself on the floor of a German trench!

Not twenty yards away men were busy with pick and shovel, making good the effect of the shell explosion on their parapet; and on the impulse of the moment he dived unseen into the mouth of a dug-out immediately in front of him.

It was empty, but a brazier was burning under a cooking-pot, and on one side of the wall of the unspeakably filthy place hung a row of uniforms.

"I shall never get out of it in these togs," he thought, looking ruefully at his own tattered rags; and with no very fixed idea of what to do or how to do it, he put on the first tunic he found, drew a pair of baggy slops over his own gaiters and breeches, and crammed a forage cap, with a red band and cockade, on to his head.

Something bulky in the pocket of the tunic attracted his attention. It was a book, half filled with German shorthand notes, and on the fly-leaf was inscribed the name—"Carl Heft, 307th Reserve Battalion."

Carl Heft was evidently a stenographer, and to the lad's horror he heard a harsh voice calling out the name.

"Great Scott! What have I done now?" he thought. And as a black-whiskered sergeant loomed in the doorway of the dug-out, he clicked his heels together in the approved German fashion, and stood stolidly to attention.

"What are you skulking here for, Heft?" demanded the sergeant angrily. "Come along, pig's head—the general wants you!"

Dennis stepped briskly forward without a word, fastening the last button on the soiled tunic as he reached the open air.

"They're either in a high state of nerves, or I must be something like the real Carl Heft," he thought. "Not very flattering to one's vanity, but it might be useful, who knows? What on earth is going to happen now? I'm perfectly certain to give the show away this time."

No one paid any attention to him as he passed the busy groups of men in the firing bays, for everyone was working feverishly to repair the damage of the British shells; and after some twists and turns, the sergeant vanished into a covered communication at the entrance to which was planted a pennant, whose horizontal stripes of black, red and white denoted the headquarters of a division.

Dennis could not restrain a smile of huge delight, for the flag told him that we must have penetrated a considerable distance into the enemy lines.

The passage ended abruptly in a luxurious bomb-proof shelter, where electric light was burning. There was a carpet on the floor marked with the white chalk prints of many boot soles, and several comfortable arm-chairs told a story of loot. There were pictures on the walls, and various doorways indicated the existence of quite a suite of apartments.

The place was full of the blue haze of cigar-smoke, and there were three officers standing there, all talking at once.

As Dennis clicked his heels again and saluted with his back to the entrance, his heart beating sixteen to the dozen, one of the officers turned towards him and scowled sourly.

"Zo! You have condescended to come at last, miserable hound!" he snarled—a bald-headed man with a general's shoulder-straps.

"Take this message on to the machine in duplicate." And he pointed to a corner of the dug-out, where there was a telephone board and a stool; and on a Louis XV. table, with beautiful brass mountings, stood a typewriter.

Dennis seated himself with alacrity, thanking his stars that he had learned typewriting in an odd moment, without any distinct idea of it ever being any good to him.

And somehow at that moment there flashed through his mind the recollection of Ottilie von Dussel and the carbon in the pay-book, which had enabled her to escape with her notes.

"Why not a third copy?" he thought. "If I ever get back to H.Q., who knows what use it might not be to us?"

Opening the box beside the machine, he quickly inserted two carbons and three sheets of typing paper; and without a second glance at him the general began to dictate:

"'To Colonel Schlutz, commanding the 307th Bavarian Battalion.—Immediately upon receipt of this order you are to entrain your men with the 89th Ersatz Battalion for transportation to PÉronne. Five Prussian regiments will relieve you here to-night, to fill up the gap in our third line of defence. You are to be as sparing as possible of ammunition, both for the rifles and the machine-guns, as we are warned that the supply may be interrupted. You will use the bayonet on every opportunity.' Have you done?"

"Yes, your excellency," replied "Carl Heft."

"Then I will sign the first copy." And he unscrewed a fountain-pen as he spoke.

Handing him the uppermost sheet, Dennis seized the opportunity to fold up the end one and slip it into his pocket; and he had just succeeded when the general added the last scrawl to his indecipherable signature.

"Place this in an envelope," he said, "and deliver it yourself into the hands of the Oberst" (colonel).

"And the second copy, your excellency?" volunteered the supposed Heft.

"Place it upon the file as usual, and be off!"

The three men resumed their excited conversation, to which he would dearly have loved to listen.

But he filed the sheet, made an elaborate salute, and joined the sergeant, who was waiting in the communication.

"Where are we going?" whispered the man, when they were out of earshot.

"To PÉronne," replied Dennis.

"Good! I am not sorry!" grunted the sergeant. "I have had enough of these cursed Englanders! Let the Prussians come and see how they like it. It was their war."

All doubt as to how he would find the battalion to which he was supposed to belong was resolved by the sergeant turning sharply to the right, and already Dennis began to feel a little easier in his mind.

Obviously a man employed on the headquarters staff would to some extent lose touch with his comrades; and as the sergeant had not discovered him, he might very possibly pass unrecognised—unless, of course, the real Carl Heft turned up!

Not that he was happy by any manner of means, for he did not see his way an inch beyond the broad back of the man he was following; and before he could formulate any plan, the sergeant saluted a stout officer with the words: "An order from his excellency, Herr Colonel!"

The stout man snatched the paper, read it, and looked up at the sky, which was cloudy and lowering.

"Very well," he said gravely. "Let the men fall in by companies at once." And he retired into his own dug-out, which was a few paces away, to secure some of his personal belongings.

With incredible quickness the word was passed along the trench, and Dennis found himself shouldering up in a jostling line, staring at the sandbags in front of him, while sergeants shouted as a low murmur rolled along the trench. If only he could make one dash over those sandbags he might be free, but the thing was impossible; and, picking up a rifle, he resumed his place, wondering what Bob and Wetherby and the other fellows would say if he lived to tell them of this extraordinary adventure.

A tall captain with a foxy face and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses forced his way along the front of the line, and the soldier on Dennis's left had the misfortune to leave his rifle-butt sticking out in advance of his feet.

The captain tripped over it, ripped out an oath, and confronted the man.

"Clumsy hound!" he hissed, dealing him a sounding box on the ears. "Let that teach you to be careful in the future." And he deliberately spat three times in the offender's face.

Dennis's blood boiled at the coarse indignity, but the man stood rigid without the slightest sign of resentment; and when the beast had passed, he quietly wiped his face with his chalk-stained sleeve.

A sharp command came down the line, everyone turned to his right, and away they shuffled—that grey-green battalion, with Dennis in the middle of them!

For a long distance they stumbled mechanically through trenches and a labyrinth of mystifying communications, until the head of the column reached a light railway, where a train of open trucks was waiting.

The sound of escaping steam mingled with the perpetual thunder of guns, and the train seemed to stretch away in never-ending perspective along a chalk cutting.Hoping against hope to the last minute that something would happen, almost praying in his heart that one of those whistling shells might fall in their midst and, tearing up the lines, so stop their going, he realised how lonely one can be even in the midst of a crowd.

Already the leading companies were entraining, and a hum of voices rose as the non-commissioned officers drove the men like sheep, with their rifles held crosswise, now and then pounding some bungler in the ribs with the butt end.

Even if he had been able to slip aside, he knew that to stay in that place was to court certain discovery; and now no alternative was left him, as half a dozen shouting sergeants cut off his retreat, and with a wildly beating heart Dennis Dashwood climbed up into the nearest truck with a herd of unwashed, unshaven enemies, packed tightly almost to suffocation.

Then he grasped the side of the wagon as a great jolt ran along the train from end to end, and the couplings tightened.

The 307th Reserve Battalion was on its way to fight the French, and Dennis was going with them!