Two days later Jefferson got leave to spend the day in the nearest town. He returned early in the afternoon, put his revolver in the pocket of his British warm coat, and set out for the windmill. He did not know to whom the mill belonged, nor did that trouble him. An Artillery Brigade had parked near the village that morning. Jefferson got inside the mill without difficulty. It was a creaky, rat-haunted old place, and no one lived within half a mile of it. Poking about, he discovered nothing until his eyes happened to fall on a little medallion stuck between two boards on the floor. Picking it up, Jefferson recognised it as one of those little “miraculous medals” which he had seen strung on a light chain around Martha’s neck. He frowned thoughtfully, and put it in his pocket. He hid himself in a corner and waited. He waited so long that he fell asleep. The opening of the little wooden door of the mill roused him with a start. There was a long pause, and then the sound of footsteps coming up the wooden stairway which led to where Jefferson lay. The window in the mill-face reflected the dying glow of a perfect sunset, and the light in the mill was faint. He could hear the hum of a biplane’s engines as it hurried homeward, the day’s work done. A peaked cap rose above the level of the floor, followed by a stout, rubicund face. A Belgian gendarme. Jefferson fingered his revolver, and waited. The gendarme looked around, grunted, and disappeared down the steps again, closing the door that led into the mill with a bang. Jefferson sat up and rubbed his head. He did not quite understand. Perhaps ten minutes had passed when for the third time that night the door below was opened softly, closed as softly, and some one hurried up the steps. It was Martha. She had a shawl over her head and shoulders, and she was breathing quickly, with parted lips. Jefferson noiselessly dropped his revolver into his pocket again. With swift, sure movements, the girl began to set the machinery of the mill in motion. By glancing over to the window, Jefferson could see the sails move slowly--very, very slowly. Martha fumbled for a paper in her bosom, and, drawing it forth, scrutinised it tensely. Then she set the machinery in motion again. She had her back to him. Jefferson rose stealthily and took a step towards her. A board creaked and, starting nervously, the girl looked round. For a moment the two gazed at each other in dead silence. “Martha,” said Jefferson, “Martha!” There was a mixture of rage and reproach in his voice. Even as he spoke they heard the whine of shells overhead, and then four dull explosions. “Your work,” cried Jefferson thickly, taking a stride forward and seizing the speechless woman by the arm.