CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I

PAGAN strained his ears to locate exactly the direction from which the sounds were coming; for he realized that if his rather inadequate hiding place were upon the near side of that mysterious path down which Kleber and his companion were moving, they would come out upon the track somewhere away to his left and, assuming Kleber to be returning by the way he had come, would walk up it right past him; whereas if his hiding place were beyond the path, they would come out upon the track somewhere away to the right and walk away from him.

As the sounds grew nearer he located them definitely as coming from the left, and he turned his head and strained his eyes in that direction. Suddenly he was aware of a vague form, dimly discernible as a moving patch of darkness, in the gloom a few yards away. A moment later another vague form appeared beside it; and the two moved slowly towards him up the track, looming larger and less vague with every step. He hoped they would speak, but they came on in silence in single file, for the track was narrow.

Pagan lay motionless among the weeds, calculating the chances of his being seen. In any case it was too late now to move. Movement and sound were the two things that would betray his presence: without them he was comparatively safe. He lay with muscles taut and his breath coming lightly between parted lips.

The two figures came on slowly. They passed within a foot or two of where he lay among the weeds; and he saw them silhouetted from the hips upwards against the night sky across the valley. The broader and shorter figure in front wearing a hat was undoubtedly Kleber. The tall, powerful figure that came behind was bare-headed, and the dim silhouette of its head against the sky startled Pagan and set his heart pounding against his ribs. It was no human profile that he saw, but an irregular concave line.

The two figures passed slowly up the track and were lost in the darkness, but the sounds of their progress continued. These ceased suddenly, and the murmur of voices came again. Then the voices ceased and the sound of movement began again, growing fainter as it passed into the distance.

Pagan decided to follow. He raised himself upon one elbow, and he was drawing up his legs as a preliminary to thrusting them out upon the track when fresh sounds struck him motionless again. The sounds came from the same direction as before. They were sounds of footsteps upon the track, footsteps coming nearer. He lowered his elbow and dropped back to the more comfortable prone position. This could mean but one thing; Kleber had gone and that other figure was returning.

The sounds came gradually nearer. Pagan’s brain was working actively. Should he let the figure pass and then track it to its lair among this labyrinth of old dug-outs and trenches or should he confront it boldly and settle once and for all whether it were man or beast? That it might prove dangerous had to be considered, but an old war maxim ran in his head: the best form of defence is to attack.

The footsteps sounded very near now. Pagan prepared for action. He rose noiselessly upon one knee and transferred the torch to his left hand. A dim figure had emerged from the darkness and was coming slowly down the path towards him. It came closer—five yards, three yards, two.

Pagan rose quickly to his feet and switched on the torch. “Halt!” he cried in French; and then added, “My God!”

The figure had halted, and the bright wavering circle of light from the torch in Pagan’s uncertain hand revealed a rough tweed coat and neat collar and tie about a strong tanned human neck. But the face above was hardly human. There appeared to be no eyes. There was no nose; only a dark cavity. And the mouth was a slit through which white teeth glimmered like those of a snarling beast. All the rest was shapeless, livid corrugated flesh like purplish crepe rubber, and by contrast the neatly brushed fair hair above, added if possible to the ghastly affect. There was a long silence.

Pagan’s voice shook as he cried at last harshly, “Who are you?” He spoke in English under the sudden stress of emotion.

Some twitchings of two spots of naked flesh made it apparent that the creature had eyes after all, but they had been fast closed against the blinding glare. They opened slowly, and Pagan was startled to see how sparkling and blue they were, set in that dull livid, shapeless mass of flesh. They were keen, intelligent and above all, sad eyes that went far to restore his shaken confidence.

He pulled himself together and lowered the beam of light so as to lessen the glare. “Who are you and what are you up to?” he demanded again.

Then the creature spoke. “Who am I!” it echoed irritably. “What the hell has that to do with you? It seems much more to the point to ask who are you and what you are up to—unless it’s highway robbery!”

To Pagan’s surprise the language was English and the voice well-bred, thought a trifle indistinct, due no doubt to the twisted mouth. There was silence for a moment, and then the creature made as though to pass on down the track. But Pagan stood his ground.

“Who are you?” he repeated doggedly.

The creature halted again. Its blue eyes peered at Pagan’s shadowed face as though it were trying to make up its mind about him. “Why should I answer you?” it retorted at last.

Pagan shrugged his shoulders. “Because, because you …” he began; and then a lifelong habit asserted itself, “because you come in such a questionable shape.”

The other made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sigh, and a long silence followed. He looked away across the valley at the moonlit hill-top and then back again at Pagan. “Well I will answer your question,” he said at last. “Though I do not admit your right to ask it. Who am I? I am a fellow who, as you see, got a little damaged in the late war. And as for what I am doing here, well …” He paused and then continued with tragic nonchalance, “I prefer to live up here where there are no women and children to frighten.”

For some moments they stood there in silence facing one another in the gloom above the pool of light spilled upon the path by the torch in Pagan’s lowered hand.

When at last he spoke his voice was low and gentle. “I am afraid I have made rather an ass of myself, sir,” he said uncomfortably. “I’m sorry. I had no intention of barging in on your private affairs like this. I had no idea, I am awfully sorry.”

“No matter. After all, how could you possibly have known!” answered the other in a more friendly tone. “Though your manner was a bit brusque, wasn’t it! I suppose you had heard tales of something queer up here and wanted to see for yourself. Yes, they call this the haunted battlefield, you know,” he went on with a half laugh. “And now you have seen the ghost!”

“Alas poor ghost,” murmured Pagan under his breath.

The other fumbled in his pocket and produced a pipe which he put into his twisted mouth. “Possibly you are one of the people Kleber was telling me stayed at his inn last night,” he said.

Pagan nodded. “As a matter of fact it was his rather curious behaviour that led me to play the part of Paul Pry and brought me up here again to-night. That is my only excuse, such as it is; and … well, I’m most awfully sorry.”

The other nodded. “Kleber is not very subtle, I’m afraid. But don’t let it worry you. I can see that you are not the sort of fellow to go shouting it from the housetops.” And then after a slight pause, he added, “I never thought to talk to one of my own kind again, and I find it rather good after all these years.”

Pagan nodded his head sympathetically. “Do you talk to no one then except Kleber?” he asked.

“Only Kleber,” repeated the other. “He is a good fellow but he has his limitations as a conversationalist.”

“But how long is it …” began Pagan. And then he stopped and added hastily, “There I go asking questions again. I’m sorry.”

The other made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Don’t apologise,” he said. “You have no idea how good it sounds to hear English again. It’s a long, long time now since I heard another Englishman speak it—not since that crump spoiled my beauty.” He laughed softly without bitterness. The trace of embarrassment which had at first characterized his manner seemed to be passing. “You would hardly believe it,” he went on. “And I can say it now without being suspected of vanity, but I was considered rather a handsome fellow in my time.”

Pagan nodded in embarrassed silence.

“Let’s see, how many years now is it since the great fracas?” went on the other. “I suppose you came in for that?”

“I did,” said Pagan.

“What division were you?”

Pagan told him. He nodded and went on reminiscently, “Oh yes. I ran across them on the Somme in ’sixteen; they were coming out from Trones wood: we were going in.”

“Sticky spot that,” commented Pagan.

“It was,” agreed the other. He was silent for a moment and then he said diffidently, “I say, I hope it doesn’t bore you to talk about those old times.”

“Not a bit,” returned Pagan. “I like it.”

“So do I,” confessed the other. “Only I don’t often get the chance nowadays,” he added simply.

Pagan directed the light of his torch upon the bank beside the track. “Suppose we sit down, then,” he suggested.

“If you are not in a hurry,” said the man. “But now that you have run me to earth, I was going to suggest that you came along to my quarters and had a powwow.”

“I would like to,” answered Pagan. “But I don’t want to pry into your affairs,” he added.

The other dismissed the remark with a wave of his hand. “We will go then, shall we? They are not luxurious, you know, but there is a pew at any rate.”

He led the way for a few yards down the track, and then halted. “If you lend me your torch, I will show you the way.”

Pagan handed over the torch, and his companion directed the beam on to a large clump of brambles. There was a small gap in the middle of the clump, and the man stepped from the track over the intervening brambles into it. Then he went down an invisible step so that only that part of his body above the waist was visible. He held the torch so that Pagan could see.

“Step across,” he said. “But not too far or you will fall in. There is a ledge here about a foot wide.”

Pagan stepped across as directed and found himself standing upon the brink of a narrow, half-filled trench.

“Now follow me and keep your head down,” said his companion. He bent low and disappeared beneath the brambles.

Pagan stepped into the shallow trench and followed, with head bent low, into the deeper part beneath the brambles. Presently it was possible to walk upright. The trench zigzagged up the hill, and was evidently an old communicating trench. Weeds and brambles grew right across the top in many places, and occasionally tangles of wire showed above against the sky.

The guide halted at last where the trench was roofed with two sheets of galvanized iron covered with weed-grown earth. He stooped and went through a low dug-out entrance in the side of the trench, and held the torch behind him so that the beam was directed upon the floor. Pagan followed along a short low passage to a curtain of sacking which the guide held aside. A yard beyond it, the beam of the torch shone upon a rough wooden door.

“A door in a dug-out is a refinement of luxury I have not met before,” commented Pagan.

“It is a post-war addition of my own,” explained the other. He pushed it open, disclosing a light beyond.

Pagan passed through into what was evidently a dug-out, though it was like no dug-out he had seen before.

Not a square inch of earth showed anywhere. All the walls were covered with creosoted planks, and on two walls the planks themselves were hidden behind dark green curtains of some thick rough material. The floor also was boarded and was in part covered with a worn green carpet. The planks forming the roof were creosoted a dark brown, but the two great timbers which stretched from side to side and carried the great weight of the earth above were beautifully carved along the edges with the old Norman dog-tooth pattern and painted a rich red, green, white, gold and black.

The furniture consisted of a rough bookcase containing a number of books, the greater part of which were paper covered Tauchnitz editions. A worn French, green plush arm-chair was placed beside a small deal table on which stood an oil lamp and a tin of tobacco. There was a smaller wicker chair beside the bookcase. A larger and more solid table on the other side of the dug-out contained some tools, such as chisels and gouges, some pots of paint, and a small block of wood, the upper part of which had been roughly carved to the shape of an Alsatian head-dress. Upon a shelf behind the table stood some more pots of paint and a beautifully carved and coloured model of an Alsatian cabin with a stork’s nest on the chimney.

“That is not your handiwork, is it!” exclaimed Pagan admiringly. He kept his eyes from the man’s dreadful face which seemed to draw them like a magnet.

“Yes, that is one of my efforts,” answered the man. “And this is another on the way,” he added with his hand on the half carved block of wood. “This is how I get my living. Kleber disposes of them for me to the shops. Tourists buy them, you know.”

“I bought one myself,” Pagan told him. “I don’t buy travel souvenirs as a rule, but I pride myself that I know a good piece of work when I see it.”

“Thanks,” said the other. “Sit down, won’t you. I will put some coffee on; I’m afraid that is the best I can do in the way of a drink.”

“There is nothing I should like better, if it isn’t an awful fag,” said Pagan. He glanced at his watch. “But I must not stay long.”

The owner of this strange home went behind the curtain that screened the end of the dug-out and returned with a primus stove and a kettle. Pagan unbuttoned his coat.

“Oh do take that off,” said the other. “I’m afraid my manners have gone to pot living alone.” He hung the coat on a nail behind the door and went back to the stove. But his eyes wandered wistfully over Pagan’s black bow and dinner jacket.

“It’s a long time since I wore a boiled shirt,” he murmured as he poured methylated spirit into the collar of the stove. “Reminds one of old times.” He struck a match and lighted the spirit. “Did you ever see Romance? he asked suddenly.

Pagan nodded. “I think everybody did; Doris Keane in Romance was one of the seven wonders of the war.”

The stranger began to pump the stove. “What is she in now?” he asked.

“Nothing as far as I know; I haven’t heard of her for years,” answered Pagan.

The other nodded his head. “Of course it is a long time ago now. I suppose all the old shows have gone — Chu-Chin-Chow, Zig Zag, To-night’s the Night … Vanity Fair?”

“All gone, I’m afraid,” answered Pagan gently.

The stove was roaring well now and the man sat down in the wicker chair. “I saw Chu-Chin-Chow seven times,” he said reminiscently. “Three times on one leave! And To-night’s the Night four times. Do you remember that song, ‘Any old night is a wonderful night if you’re there with a wonderful girl?’ It was too,” he added half to himself.

Pagan nodded. “Happy days,” he murmured.

There was silence for a moment or two, and then the stranger asked almost conventionally, “Any good shows on in Town now?”

“No—not like the old ones,” said Pagan. “At any rate they don’t seem as good as the old ones seemed.”

The other filled his pipe thoughtfully. “I’m rather glad of that,” he said slowly. Silence settled down again.

Pagan looked appreciatively round the dug-out. “You have made yourself very comfortable here,” he said.

“I’m glad you like it. I’m rather proud of it.”

“You have every reason to be,” Pagan told him. “This is an old Bosche dug-out, I suppose,” he added.

The other nodded. “Yes—all this side of the ridge was German.”

“But did you get your … your Blighty one down in this part of the world?” asked Pagan.

The man rose and began to make the coffee. “Oh no,” he answered. “This part of the line was always in the French area. I don’t think we ever had any troops down here. I ‘copped my packet’ as Tommy says, much further North.” He poured the coffee into two plain white cups of thick china, one of which he handed to Pagan. From behind the curtain he produced a box of sugar cubes.

“I expect you are wondering how I got down here.”

Pagan stirred his coffee. “I don’t want to pry,” he said; “but, well, naturally I am rather curious.”

The other nodded his head slowly. “It was rather curious.” Either by accident or design he sat where the direct light of the lamp did not fall upon him, and his head was turned so the full horror of his face was not visible. “If it would interest you.”

“It would very much,” Pagan told him.

II

The man took the tobacco tin from the table and filled his pipe. “It was during the big Bosche attack in the spring of eighteen. I don’t know whether you were in that?”

Pagan shook his head. “No, we missed it. We were just north of Arras at the time; we came in for it later on. But we heard the racket down south.”

“We just caught it,” said the other. “We had been in only a couple of days when it came. Misty weather; couldn’t see a damned thing. All the telephone cables were cut during the first half-hour of the barrage and nobody knew what was happening. I had a frightful lot of casualties in my Company and I couldn’t get in touch with Battalion. Heavy machine gunning going on behind us too. Then the crump came along that got me, and I suppose my fellows thought I was done for. Anyway I was too smashed up to remember that or what happened for some time afterwards. But I suppose what did happen was the Bosche pushed our fellows back and found me.” He sucked at his pipe. “You know what things are like during a push, and it must have been the merest fluke that they didn’t leave me there to make an end of it. Anyway, for some reason or other they didn’t; they brought me back to a hospital. And there again I was lucky—or unlucky.” He regarded the glowing bowl of his pipe and went on. “As you may imagine, the doctors had their hands pretty full at that time and they might reasonably have put on one side one who, like myself, was an enemy and a pretty hopeless case. Undoubtedly they would have done so, only the fellow in charge happened to be an enthusiast on his job—the worse a case was the better he liked it—and the moment I was brought in, he lost interest in all the rest. Here was something that would really test his skill, he thought, and, well, I became his pet case.

“Some of these German doctors are much cleverer than ours, I think; anyway, this fellow pulled me through. It was a million to one chance apparently, and he brought it off. But there were limits even to his skill; and the construction of a human face was one of them.”

He struck a match and held it to his pipe. “I lay in bed for weeks covered in dressings. And most of that time I cursed that fellow’s skill that kept me alive when I ought to have been dead. I knew he had no interest in me personally: it was just his damned professional pride. He wanted to be able to exhibit me as a trophy of his skill.

“He was kind enough though, you know. He offered to try to get into touch with my people for me. I knew they thought I was dead, and as it was still very much touch and go whether I lived, I said no. And besides, I knew he would never make a job of my face. It was all covered in dressings and I had not seen a glass, but I knew. I asked him about it once; but he hedged. Then I asked Kleber, and he told me the truth.”

“Kleber!” exclaimed Pagan.

The other nodded. “Yes; that was where I first met Kleber. He was a hospital orderly; and he was very good to me. The Germans did not treat their enemy wounded badly, you know, but they were short of things themselves at that time, and when there was not enough to go round, it was only natural that their own wounded came first. Kleber got me lots of little comforts that I should have missed otherwise.”

“Stout fellow,” murmured Pagan.

“He was an Alsatian, conscripted of course into the German army; but he hated war, and he had no great love either for French or German. His one idea was to get it over and get back to his farm here in the Vosges. He often used to talk to me about it. He didn’t get on too well with the other orderlies; as an Alsatian he was rather suspect, and he was glad to talk to me. He used to sneak in at odd times with any little delicacy he could get hold of and then talk about his home and his wife and daughter. They were on the German side of the line, living down at Turkheim and making a living by selling stuff to the troops back in rest. His little farm and estaminet were of course on the French side, just over the ridge here. His wife became ill and died during the time that I was in that hospital, and he never forgave the authorities for refusing him leave to go to see her.”

“Rotten trick,” commented Pagan. “We always gave our fellows leave.”

The other nodded. “Well, after a bit I began to sit up and take notice. I was still all swathed in bandages, but I used to sit in a chair outside in the sun and take little walks occasionally. Kleber nearly always went with me. By this time he looked upon me as a friend, and I knew all his personal history. He told me all the news that came from the official communiqués and that drifted back from the line, and we discussed it together, more like a couple of retired chess players watching a tournament than two enemies in the middle of a war. The allies were just beginning their last series of offensives then, and our one subject of discussion was whether they would be able to break through and win the war that year. Kleber thought they would; Germany was on its last legs, he believed. I was not so sanguine. Next year perhaps when the Americans really got going, I said.”

He tapped his pipe out into the lid of a tin. “Well, you know what happened. You were in it yourself, I expect. We were in a little backwater away among the woods, but day by day the news came rolling in—Bapaume retaken, the Hindenburg Line crossed; we knew then we were getting near the end.

“Then Kleber came in one morning with a serious face and whispered to me to meet him in a quiet spot in the grounds. I did so, and we sat down beneath the trees and he told me the news. There had been a revolution in Germany it was rumoured, the Kaiser had abdicated and an armistice was being asked for. Anyway, the hospital was to pack up and go back. Then Kleber unfolded his plan and asked my opinion of it.

“If he went back with the hospital to Germany it would mean weeks of delay before army red tape could demobilize him, quite apart from any complications that might arise if, as was said, a revolution really had broken out. He had no interest in a German revolution; he wanted only to get back to his home. The war was over; therefore he proposed to demobilize himself. He was nearer home there than he would be in Leipzig or Munich. He proposed to leave that night and tramp southwards to Alsace; he had only to follow the trench line which would bring him within a mile of his home.

“We discussed the idea, and it seemed to me to be a good scheme. Then I put forward my own idea. ‘Look here,’ I said, ‘take me with you. I have no more use for Germany and revolutions than you have. My people think I’m dead, and with a face like mine I had much better remain dead as far as they are concerned. You can find me a job of work on your farm.’

“We argued a bit, but he agreed in the end, for he was glad to have my company. We agreed that night was the best time to clear out; but the patients were always shut in after dusk, and so it was arranged that I should pretend to go for a stroll in the grounds during the afternoon and make for a hiding place he knew of about a mile away. It was unlikely that any great fuss would be made over my disappearance, as discipline had largely gone to pot during the few previous days. Anyway, I was to lie close, and he would join me after dark with as much food and kit as he could collect.

“It all worked well. I strolled out in the afternoon, and as soon as I was out of view from the window of the hospital, made straight for the hiding place, which I found without difficulty. I had on the old trench coat in which I had been captured, and the pockets were stuffed with my few belongings and what little money I had. Soon after dark Kleber arrived. He carried a pack full of food and a couple of blankets. Apparently in the general disorganization my disappearance had not even been noticed.

“We had no map, but that didn’t worry Kleber. The trench line, he said, led to his house; and we started off then and there.

“Have you seen much of the line—up and down, I mean?”

“A good bit,” answered Pagan. “The Salient, La Bassée, Vimy Ridge, and most of the Somme.”

The other nodded. “But only bits, I expect; not continuously. Did you ever think of that great deserted highway of no-man’s-land running from the Channel to the Alps?”

Pagan nodded. “Yes—often.”

“Well, Kleber and I marched down most of it—every inch of it from St. Quentin to the Vosges. The Chemin des Dames, the Argonne, Verdun—we saw it all—by night. It was one of the queerest experiences I ever had, tramping along night after night through no-man’s-land. And not a sound. And we came across some queer things too.

“We marched always at night and lay up during the day in some old dug-out. Kleber managed to exchange his uniform for civilian clothes, and sometimes he went to cottages and bought or begged food to eke our scanty supplies. We had a little paraffin stove and we cooked on that. I don’t know how long it took us to get here, for I lost count of the days. I was not yet properly fit, and we had to move by easy stages.

“I shall never forget Kleber’s joy when at last we reached the hills. He didn’t say much, but he kept striding ahead and then pulling up short when he remembered my weak condition. Anyway, it was several days after that before we arrived. I remember that night particularly. It was moonlight and we came along the top of the ridge here from the north. Kleber had not told me we were so close, but I had noticed that he seemed more impatient than usual. He kept on stopping and peering down to the right, and then he would grunt and move on again. Suddenly he turned off half right and led the way down the grassy slope on the other side of the ridge—you probably know it, though there wasn’t much grass there then. He said the going would be easier than on top. I was pretty tired and did not pay much attention. I know we crossed a hollow and then climbed another steepish slope. On top he seized me by the arm and pointed.

“As I said, it was moonlight, and below us was a shallow hollow that seemed to run straight off the mountain to a deep valley south of us. I could see a line of high hills beyond. But at the bottom of the hollow, where it ran off the mountain so to speak, was a dark building with the moonlight shining through the skeleton rafters of its smashed roof. It was towards this that Kleber was pointing.

“‘That’s my home,’ he said in a quiet voice. I didn’t know what to say, for I knew he was thinking of that smashed roof, and for all I knew the whole building was just a gutted shell like all the others in the forward area. You know what their sticks and houses are to these peasants; you’ve seen them farther north, I expect, risking their lives to bring out a mattress or a broken chair. It’s their very life blood. He must have known that a building as close to the line as that could hardly escape damage, but I suppose he had always pictured his home in its peaceful setting as he had known it, so that he never connected it with the gaping ruins he had seen in other parts of the line.

“But he didn’t rave and curse. ‘That’s my home,’ he said quite quietly and then led the way down towards it.

“When we got close to it I was glad to see that the damage seemed to be confined to the roof: the walls looked sound enough. He climbed in through a broken window and told me to wait while he got a light. I heard him moving across the floor inside, and then I heard another sound which seemed to come from another room. Someone else was there too, and I started to climb through the window, for I knew that Kleber was in the mood for murder just then. I heard him growl angrily and swing open a door, and I saw a dull patch of light appear at the end of the room. Then there followed an ominous silence broken only by a sort of panting, shuffling noise.

“I scrambled through the window as quickly as I could, but before I was half way across the room, I heard Kleber’s voice again and it didn’t sound a bit angry. And then I heard a woman’s voice. Kleber called me, and I just had time to pull the collar of my trench coat across my face before the door opened and Kleber came out with his arm round a girl. Of course it was Bertha, his daughter.

“You know what these peasant women are for grit, you’ve seen ’em farther north. Directly the last shot was fired, she’d packed her traps in a sack, flung it over her shoulder and tramped straight back to her home. She had been there about four days then and she had already started repairing the roof with odds and ends of stuff that was lying about. And … well, that’s how I came to be here.”

Pagan relighted his pipe. “You didn’t work on the farm then, as you suggested.”

The other shook his head. “At first I helped Kleber to get things going—house watertight and all that. At that time, of course, the place was deserted. Munster was flat and the people were only just beginning to come back. Nobody ever came up here, and I could wander about much as I liked. Both Kleber and Bertha wanted me to remain in the house, but it wasn’t playing the game. I don’t belong to the family. And besides I’m an independent sort of fellow. I found this dug-out and rigged it up; and then I hit upon the idea of making these gadgets for the shops. So now I have my own house, such as it is, and earn my own living such as it is. That is much more satisfactory. And no one could want better or more loyal friends than Kleber and Bertha.”

“I am sure of that,” agreed Pagan. “And you are content?”

The other tapped out his pipe. “Yes—why not? I will not pretend that I’m not bored at times. But I have no worries and I am my own master.” He indicated the dug-out with a wave of his hand. “I have my home—such as it is, my books, my simple work. And I have enough to live upon in my own little way. Yes, I am content—even happy.”

When Pagan rose to go, he asked, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

The tall lonely man shook his head.

“Sure?”

“Sure.”

Pagan produced a small pocket diary from his coat; he pulled out the thin pencil and wrote. Then he tore out the page. “There is my name and the hotel I am staying at in Munster,” he said. “Also my English address. If at any time I can be of any use, don’t hesitate to write. Promise?”

The other glanced at the paper, folded it up and put it in his pocket. “I promise,” he said. “And thanks very, very much.”

He led Pagan back down the old trench, up through the brambles on to the track, and thence down to the road. The moon swam high above the ridge, and the white shivered tree stumps glimmered eerily like watchful ghosts in the cold greenish light.

“Please don’t bother to come any further,” said Pagan.

They shook hands and said good night. Pagan set off at a smart pace down the road. He turned after some twenty paces and waved his hand to the tall figure standing motionless against the rising background of the ridge, and a hand was waved in reply. When next he turned his head the figure was gone and only the white splintered trunks stood forlornly in the moonlight.

III

He expected he would have to walk back, but some half a mile down the road where it swept round the big grassy hummock at the end of the ridge before descending in loops to the valley, he came upon the car. A dark silent figure was distinguishable in the front seat under the cover. It stirred as he came up. “I’m afraid I have been a very long time,” said Pagan. “But I told you not to wait.”

Griffin smothered a yawn and climbed stiffly from the car. “That’s all right, sir. I’ve slept like a top.”

Pagan got in, the headlights blazed out, and the car glided from the grass on to the road. The keen night wind hit them as they slid swiftly round the grassy hummock and began to descend the steep zigzags to the valley.

Griffin lay back with one hand lightly on the wheel. “Well, sir, did you find out what that fellow was up to?”

“Yes,” answered Pagan after a pause. “But he was not up to any harm. I’m sorry now I poked my nose in.” He considered a moment. “As a matter of fact it is nothing more than a relation of his who was terribly smashed up in the war. He is not a pretty sight and does not want people to see him—poor devil.”

“Poor blighter!” murmured Griffin sympathetically.

“I shall have to tell Mr. Baron,” went on Pagan, “or he might come poking round up here himself; but apart from that, I think it would be better, Griffin, if you and I forgot all about to-night.”

Griffin nodded his head understandingly. “That’s right, sir. We’ve just been for a ride round in the moonlight, I’ve been to sleep and that’s all I know.”

“Good man,” said Pagan.