“Not very inviting, but I for one shall be able to sleep soundly, I know,” declared Grace. “When we get to the Rhine we probably shall be billeted in a house where we can have ordinary comforts. I know I shall have difficulty in accustoming myself to civilized life again, won’t you, J. Elfreda?” “Not so that you could notice it,” was Miss Briggs’ brief reply. “I--” “Hulloa the cellar!” shouted a voice from above. “Enter,” answered Grace. A sergeant of infantry crunched in, coughed as he inhaled the smoke, and, snapping to attention, saluted, which both girls returned. “What is it, Sergeant?” asked Grace. “Captain Rowland wishes you to report at his headquarters at half past seven o’clock, Madame.” “Very good, Sergeant. Where are the captain’s headquarters?” “Four dumps down the street from here, to the right as you go out, down one flight to the cellar.” “Thank you. Will you have a nip of tea? We still have some left.” The sergeant accepted a tin-cup of tea, gulped it down, thanked them, and saluting tramped out. “Queer fellows those doughboys,” murmured Grace. “All gold, but odd josies every one of them.” “Is that what you are thinking of? Were I in your place I should be thinking of what I am going to say to Captain Rowland this evening. This is the summons I have been waiting for. You understand what this means, do you not, Grace?” “I presume so. However, I will cross that bridge when I come to it.” “Humph! That is more than you did to-day,” grumbled J. Elfreda Briggs. Half an hour later, after a final look into the steel mirror, Grace, accompanied by Miss Briggs, left the cellar and started for Captain Rowland’s headquarters, Grace having first pinned her _croix de guerre_ and Distinguished Service Cross to her breast. She had neglected to wear them in the confusion of the start that morning, though being supposed to wear them at all times when in uniform. CHAPTER III THE IRON HAND Captain Rowland sat at a table that had seen more prosperous days, and the camp chair that he was using creaked ominously. Elfreda Briggs feared that it was about to collapse under him, for the captain was not a slight man by any means. Neither Overton girl had ever before met Captain Rowland, but they had heard of him as a severe man, cold and not always as just as were most of his fellow officers, so rumor had said. Mrs. Smythe was seated on a camp stool just back of the captain, and with her was a young woman that Grace had never seen before, though she afterwards learned that the girl was Marie Debussy, a French woman, who, it appeared, was acting as the supervisor’s maid. Except for the lieutenant who had assisted Mrs. Smythe on the occasion of her rescue from the river, there were no others present. “Are you Mrs. Grace Gray?” demanded the captain, fixing a stern look on Grace Harlowe. “I am, sir.” “What right have you to those decorations?” he demanded, pointing an accusing finger at her.