Harvey Grimm thrust the paper into his pocket, stole swiftly down the stairs, paused for a moment on the threshold--it was his one moment of danger--and then strolled jauntily out. The street was almost empty. A few seconds and he was in the Strand. He plunged into a tobacconist's shop, bought half-a-dozen cigarettes, one of which he lit, and a few minutes later he climbed the stairs leading to Aaron Rodd's office. There was no immediate answer to his knock, so he opened the door and stepped inside. A tall figure in khaki was standing in front of the looking-glass, going through sundry mysterious evolutions. Harvey Grimm stared at him in blank amazement. "Good heavens!" he gasped. "It's Cresswell!" The poet turned round and saluted Harvey Grimm in jaunty fashion. "Cheero, Harvey!" he exclaimed. "You see, I've taken the plunge." "Fine fellow," Harvey Grimm murmured. "Tell us about it?" "I came in to tell Aaron," the poet went on, "but he is, for some unaccountable reason, absent. The fact is, at first I didn't feel the call of this sort of thing at all. In my soul I hate war to-day, that is in its external and material aspects--the ugliness, the bloodshed, the mangled bodies and all the rest of it. But a few days ago old Harris asked me to write them a patriotic poem. I tell you I no sooner got into the swim of it than I felt the fever burning in my own veins. I will read you the poem shortly. It will create a great sensation. The first person whom it brought into khaki was myself." "You seem to have done the job pretty quickly," Harvey Grimm observed. "I joined an Officers' Training Corps only a few days ago," Cresswell explained. "I went to my tailor's for a uniform and found that he had one made for a man exactly my height, who was down with pneumonia. So I just stepped into it and here I am. I came round to tell Aaron, to take a fond farewell and all that sort of thing. I'm afraid my adventures will be of a different sort for a time. We've had some fun, though," he added, with a reminiscent gleam in his eyes. "We shall miss you," Harvey Grimm sighed, "but I am beginning to fancy that our own number's about up. I've had the narrowest shave of my life this morning, and I don't feel that I am out of the wood yet. Where is Aaron, I wonder?" "He was out when I arrived," the poet replied. "I've been waiting here for an hour." Harvey Grimm consulted his watch. "It is time," he decided, "for number one. It is several days since I tasted a cocktail. After that we might lunch together." The poet assented with alacrity. They left a note for Aaron and made their way round to the Milan. The bar was rather more crowded than usual and they took their cocktails to a settee in a corner of the room. Harvey Grimm sent for a page and wrote the name of Captain Brinnen on a piece of paper. "Will you see whether you can find this gentleman in the hotel?" he directed. "He is staying, I believe, in the Court."