Bill Grant had just felt the warm, soft water close over his body--had just begun to realize a delicious sense of lightness and rest which pervaded his whole frame--when everything about him seemed to fade into smoke and disappear. The marble bath, the stately hall, the water, the silken hangings, all vanished in a flash, and he found himself, naked and cold, lying on the cobbled floor of an exceedingly well-ventilated French barn. Worst of all, his clothes had disappeared with the rest. Outside in the yard he could see Alf signing to him in the greatest agitation; he made a dash for the haystack in the loft, and had just reached its sanctuary when he heard voices below him. Peeping through a crack in the loft floor he could see Denham and Walls, the two privates whose untimely appearance had upset Alf so completely. "Corp'ril sent us for yer, Alf," explained Walls. "Says we got to bring yer back under escort for bilkin' yer bath." "He also wished us to secure Grant," added Private Denham, a youth who was cultivating a refined accent with a view to subsequent application for a commission. "Well, 'e ain't 'ere, me lord," answered Alf shortly. "I'll come right away. I was just comin', any'ow." Unaware of the tragic loss of Bill's clothes, Alf was only anxious to get his captors away from the spot and to give his pal a chance of appearing clothed again and in his right mind as soon as might be. Bill heard their voices die away, and despairingly reviewed his position. The hay, with which he was obliged to cover himself for warmth, tickled his bare body cruelly. He was too far from his billet to think of trying to return there in his present condition, even if modesty had allowed. His clothes were irretrievably lost until Alf should come back that way, bringing the Button. Until Higgins realized that something was wrong and came in search of him, Bill must remain an outcast, naked and ashamed. He made himself a nest in the softest part of the hay and settled himself down to wait. After a time he dozed off; he was recalled to himself by the sound of a footstep below. It paused at the bottom of the ladder leading to the loft. "Alf!" said Bill in a stage whisper. "_Qui va la?_" answered a strange voice--an old, quavery voice, apparently female. Bill curled himself into his nest of hay and lay perfectly still. The owner of the voice, having listened for some time, apparently decided that Bill's greeting had been a delusion of the senses and began painfully and wheezily to climb the ladder. Through a layer of hay, Bill's eye commanded the loft door. His visitor was an elderly Frenchwoman with a pitch-fork, evidently the owner of the hay.