Let us return and seek safety in a cellar. It is not what one would call a good-looking cellar; no priceless prints adorn the walls, no Turkey carpet receives your jaded feet. In one corner a portable gramophone with several records much the worse for wear reposes on an upturned biscuit-box, and lying on the floor, with due regard to space economy, are three or four of those excellent box-mattresses which form the all-in-all of the average small Belgian house. On top of them are laid some valises and blankets, and from the one in the corner the sweet music of the sleeper strikes softly on the ear. It is the senior subaltern, who has been rambling all the preceding night in Sanctuary Wood--the proud authors of our nomenclature in Flanders quite rightly possess the humour necessary for the production of official communiques. In two chairs, smoking, are a couple of officers. One is a major of the Royal Engineers, and another, also a sapper, belongs to the gilded staff. The cellar is the temporary headquarters of a field company--office, mess, and bedroom rolled into one. "I'm devilish short-handed for the moment, Bill." The Major thoughtfully filled his pipe. "That last boy I got a week ago--a nice boy he was, too--was killed in Zouave Wood the day before yesterday, poor devil. Seymour was wounded three days ago, and there's only Brent, Johnson, and him"--he indicated the sleeper. "Johnson is useless, and Brent----" He paused, and looked full at the Staff-captain. "Do you know Brent well, by any chance?" "I should jolly well think I did. Jim Brent is one of my greatest pals, Major." "Then perhaps you can tell me something I very much want to know. I have knocked about the place for a good many years, and I have rubbed shoulders, officially and unofficially, with more men than I care to remember. As a result, I think I may claim a fair knowledge of my fellow-beings. And Brent--well, he rather beats me." He paused as if at a loss for words, and looked in the direction of the sleeping subaltern. Reassured by the alarming noise proceeding from the corner, he seemed to make up his mind. "Has Brent had some very nasty knock lately--money, or a woman, or something?" The Staff-captain took his pipe from his mouth, and for some seconds stared at the floor. Then he asked quietly, "Why? What are you getting at?" "This is why, Bill. Brent is one of the most capable officers I have ever had. He's a man whose judgment, tact, and driving power are perfectly invaluable in a show of this sort--so invaluable, in fact"--he looked straight at his listener--"that his death would be a very real loss to the corps and the Service. He's one of those we can't replace, and--he's going all out to make us have to." "What do you mean?" The question expressed no surprise; the speaker seemed merely to be demanding confirmation of what he already knew. "Brent is deliberately trying to get killed. There is not a shadow of doubt about it in my mind. Do you know why?"