No message seemed likely to come from Cadbury, so to kill time Goring had accompanied his new friend to the artillery quarters at the Caserne des Predicateurs, in the street of the name, and so called from being built, no doubt, on the site of an old Dominican convent. There is a strong family likeness in all barracks, but to Goring's English eyes the brick-floored rooms, the bare brick walls looked strange; so did the batteries of bronzed guns, drawn up wheel to wheel in the square, the meagre onion soup conveyed to the messes in buckets, and the slovenly soldiers, in long-skirted, dark blue coats with red worsted epaulettes, and buttons (_à la_ Childers) without numbers on them; and ever and anon he felt a shiver when he heard their trumpet calls--the calls with which he had become so familiar during his sojourn in the adjacent prison, in the Rue des Beguines, only two hundred metres distant. 'And your regiment, monsieur,' asked Gabion, 'where is it?' 'We have battalions in India, in Ireland, and one is now, or shall soon be in Ashanti,' replied Goring. 'Ah--Sapristi! how I should like to serve in distant lands and colonies!' 'Belgium must first get them,' thought Goring. And on returning to the hotel, finding that there was still no message from Cadbury, as his patience was utterly exhausted, he confided in his new friend Gabion. 'I have had an unpleasant affair with a countryman of mine, a Lord Cadbury, who is now at the Hôtel St. Antoine; and as I have no intimate friend in Antwerp,' said he, 'will you as an officer--a brother soldier--arrange for a meeting between us?' The Belgian tugged his dark moustaches, and hesitated, muttering, of course, the inevitable '_Sapristi!_' 'You understand?' said Goring. 'Perfectly; but, _mon ami_, I don't like duels. I was engaged in one once, and the terrible memory of the part I had unwittingly to play in it haunts me still. What is this quarrel about?' 'A lady--a lady whose name must at all hazards be kept out of it.' 'Then no apology will suffice?' 'None. And you will oblige me?' 'With pleasure,' replied the Belgian, as he buckled on his sword, leisurely lit a cigarette and crossed the open, sunny space of the Place Verte, went to the hotel indicated and sent up his card, which, in Belgian fashion, was twice the size of an English one, and bore his name in large letters, VICTOR GABION, _Capitaine d' Artillerie,_