“Have it your own way then,” said the Doctor testily. He had evidently been approached before. He took something the Sergeant-Major handed to him and pocketed it with a nod. “I was wrong,” he said to me, “when I boasted of our independence. They get round us sometimes. This,” he slapped his pocket, “will give a banquet on Tuesday. We don’t usually feed at matinées. It will be a surprise. By the way, try another sandwich. The ham are best.” He pushed me a plate. “They are,” I said. “I’ve only had five or six. I’ve been looking for them.” “’Glad you like them,” said Brother Lemming. “Fed him myself, cured him myself--at my little place in Berkshire. His name was Charlemagne. By the way, Doc, am I to keep another one for next month?” “Of course,” said the Doctor with his mouth full. “A little fatter than this chap, please. And don’t forget your promise about the pickled nasturtiums. They’re appreciated.” Brother Lemming nodded above the pipe he had lit as we began a second supper. Suddenly the Clergyman, after a glance at the clock, scooped up half-a-dozen sandwiches from under my nose, put them into an oiled paper bag, and advanced cautiously towards the sleeper on the couch. “They wake rough sometimes,” said the Doctor. “Nerves, y’know.” The Clergyman tip-toed directly behind the man’s head, and at arm’s length rapped on the dome of the helmet. The man woke in one vivid streak, as the Clergyman stepped back, and grabbed for a rifle that was not there. “You’ve barely half an hour to catch your train.” The Clergyman passed him the sandwiches. “Come along.” “You’re uncommonly kind and I’m very grateful,” said the man, wriggling into his stiff straps. He followed his guide into the darkness after saluting. “Who’s that?” said Lemming. “’Can’t say,” the Doctor returned indifferently. “He’s been here before. He’s evidently a P.M. of sorts.” “Well! Well!” said Brother Burges, whose eyelids were drooping. “We must all do what we can. Isn’t it almost time to lock up?” “I wonder,” said I, as we helped each other into our coats, “what would happen if Grand Lodge knew about all this.” “About what?” Lemming turned on me quickly. “A Lodge of Instruction open three nights and two afternoons a week--and running a lodging-house as well. It’s all very nice, but it doesn’t strike me somehow as regulation.” “The point hasn’t been raised yet,” said Lemming. “We’ll settle it after the war. Meantime we shall go on.” “There ought to be scores of them,” Brother Burges repeated as we went out of the door. “All London’s full of the Craft, and no places for them to meet in. Think of the possibilities of it! Think what could have been done _by_ Masonry _through_ Masonry _for_ all the world. I hope I’m not censorious, but it sometimes crosses my mind that Grand Lodge may have thrown away its chance in the war almost as much as the Church has.”