Four days later, as they were entering Poitiers, a brake-rod snapped. No resultant damage was done, but the car was stopped at a garage that Terry—the chauffeur—might see if an adjustment could be made. By good fortune, it could. The car was backed over a pit, and Terry got out of his coat and into his overalls. He was a good chauffeur. Where his car was concerned, he fancied his own fingers more than a hireling’s. The Major got out and went strolling. Lady Joan stayed in the car. Madeleine stood in the garage, translating for Terry. Half an hour’s work, and the connection was made. Terry heaved himself out of the pit and called for waste. The mechanics stared. “Cotton waste,” said the chauffeur. “Comprenny? Pour wiper the hands.” Madeleine smiled and asked for a rag. A mechanic went shuffling. A moment later he returned with a rectangular cardboard box. “_Voilà_,” he said. “Wot’s this?” said Terry, staring. “Dog biscuits?” The mechanic pointed to the label. Essuyages Aseptisés “We use nothing else,” he explained. “They are all manner of rags, quite clean and sterilized. This boxful will last a long time.” The chauffeur asked the price, ripped open the box, and pulled out the first piece of stuff. Madeleine took the box from him and stowed it away in the car. When she returned, Terry had wiped his hands and was looking curiously at his duster. “’Ere’s a present from Flanders all right,” he said slowly. “See? That’s where some pore bloke stopped one.” Madeleine peered at the stuff. This was the left breast of what had been a man’s shirt. Immediately over the heart there was a rough hole. The cotton thereabouts was all stained to a dull brown, so that the green and grey stripes were indistinguishable. The shoulder was gone, but hanging from the top of the fragment was a strip of quilted linen. * * * * * Let me quote from Lady Joan’s letter, dated some five days later and written from St. Jean-de-Luz. . . . _I saw the shirt myself. It was a terrible document. Poor girl! The shock was frightful. As luck would have it, the very next town on our route—a place called Ruffec—was her old home. Her brother was there. We found him and handed her over. Whether she’ll ever come back to me, I haven’t the faintest idea. . . ._ Again let me quote from a letter her ladyship wrote when two months had gone by. _P.S.—You remember Madeleine? I’ve just had a note from her saying she’s married again! No wonder France is recovering more quickly than England. Most English girls would still be upon slops. However, that’s her affair. But isn’t it just my luck? She was a perfect maid._ Which was a true saying. * * * * * Two years later Lacaze alighted at Ruffec from the Paris train. The man was changed terribly. Five years in the German mines had left their mark. He had been broken down.