“Rank bad, Sir. They are holding back the name,” said the Chief Seraph. The S.O.S. signals grew more desperate, and then ceased with an emphatic thump. The Love in Armour winced. “Firing-party,” he whispered to St. Peter. “’Can’t mistake that noise!” “What is it?” St. Peter cried nervously. “Deserter; spy; murderer,” was the Chief Seraph’s weighed answer. “It’s out of my department--now. No--hold the line! The name’s up at last.” It showed for an instant, broken and faint as sparks on charred wadding, but in that instant a dozen pens had it written. St. Peter with never a word gathered his robes about him and bundled through the door, headlong for The Gate. “No hurry,” said Death at his elbow. “With the present rush your man won’t come up for ever so long.” “’Never can be sure these days. Anyhow, the Lower Establishment will be after him like sharks. He’s the very type they’d want for propaganda. Deserter--traitor--murderer. Out of my way, please, babies!” A group of children round a red-headed man who was telling them stories, scattered laughing. The man turned to St. Peter. “Deserter, traitor, murderer,” he repeated. “Can _I_ be of service?” “You can!” St. Peter gasped. “Double on ahead to The Gate and tell them to hold up all expulsions till I come. Then,” he shouted as the man sped off at a long hound-like trot, “go and picket the outskirts of the Convoys. Don’t let any one break away on any account. Quick!” But Death was right. They need not have hurried. The crowd at The Gate was far beyond the capacities of the Examining Board even though, as St. Peter’s Deputy informed him, it had been enlarged twice in his absence. “We’re doing our best,” the Seraph explained, “but delay is inevitable, Sir. The Lower Establishment are taking advantage of it, as usual, at the tail of the Convoys. I’ve doubled all pickets there, and I’m sending more. Here’s the extra list, Sir--Arc J., Bradlaugh C., Bunyan J., Calvin J. Iscariot J. reported to me just now, as under your orders, and took ’em with him. Also Shakespeare W. and----” “Never mind the rest,” said St. Peter. “I’m going there myself. Meantime, carry on with the passes--don’t fiddle over ’em--and give me a blank or two.” He caught up a thick block of Free Passes, nodded to a group in khaki at a passport table, initialled their Commanding Officer’s personal pass as for “Officer and Party,” and left the numbers to be filled in by a quite competent-looking Quarter-master-Sergeant. Then, Death beside him, he breasted his way out of The Gate against the incoming multitude of all races, tongues, and creeds that stretched far across the plain. An old lady, firmly clutching a mottle-nosed, middle-aged Major by the belt, pushed across a procession of keen-faced _poilus_, and blocked his path, her captive held in that terrible mother-grip no Power has yet been able to unlock. “I found him! I’ve got him! Pass him!” she ordered. St. Peter’s jaw fell. Death politely looked elsewhere.