The man's prompt answer drew Denis's attention to the man himself. He was over six feet in height, and not an inch of it thrown away. But still more noticeable was a peculiar pride of countenance--some secret enthusiasm which added a freshness to the patriotic emotion to be found in any other face. "An old Guardsman?" inquired Denis. "An old Grenadier, sir!" cried the policeman. "And I would give ten years of my life to be with them now!" "Do you suppose they have lost very heavily?" Denis was searching the old soldier's face. "If the losses altogether are fourteen hundred I'll back ours to run well into three figures!" "But they'll keep the regiment up to strength, I take it?" "No doubt they'll send out a draft as soon as possible." "Of course there'd be no chance for a recruit in such a draft?" Denis had hesitated, and then forced a grin. The old Grenadier shook his head. "I doubt it, sir; but a very good man, who knew his drill, they might take him over the heads of others. They want all the good men they can get in time of war. Why, sir, that's a sovereign!" "It was meant to be; it's not a night for less. And now can you tell me where the rest of the Grenadiers are?" "Wellington Barracks, sir." Denis fell into his natural smile. "I don't know London very well. Will you do one more thing for me before I move on?" "That I will, sir." "Will you tell me how to find my way to Wellington Barracks?" CHAPTER XXIX GUY FAWKES DAY A company officer was making his round of an outlying picket of Grenadiers; the black hour before a drizzling dawn effectually shrouded moist features and sodden whiskers, as bearskin and greatcoat served to modify an erect yet incorrigibly casual carriage. It was Ralph Devenish, however, and he was performing his duties with some punctilio. The sentries stood their twenty paces apart, all but invisible to each other, sundered links waiting for the dawn to complete the chain. And at each link the officer halted and beat his foot. "All's well." "Except your rifle, eh?" muttered Devenish to one or two; from a third he took the man's dripping piece, and from the nipple poured a tiny jet of water into the palm of his left hand. "Keep it covered if you can, or it will never go off," was his audible injunction to that sentry and the next. One who knew him would have marveled at such zeal and such initiative in Ralph Devenish. One who knew him did. "All's well." "Except your musket, I expect. Let's see it. You know my voice?" It had dropped with the question. "I do." "I suppose you thought I didn't recognize you?" "I didn't know." "Well, I did, and had you put on this picket on purpose to get a word with you; but don't you raise your voice any more than I'm raising mine," whispered Devenish in one breath, with a louder comment on the condition of the rifle in his next. "What are you doing here?" he added in his strenuous undertone. "When did you land in England?" "The last morning of September."