"I know they did," laughed Vane. "That's probably why it's so filthy." The gas officer looked thoughtful. "I'm not certain that I agree with you, Vane. War is such a filthy business, however you look at it, that one would be a fool not to harness science in every possible way . . ." "Don't you believe it," scoffed Vane. "Science has harnessed us. We've started the bally motor with the gear in, and now we're running after it trying to catch up. Can I give you a lift back on my private stink machine? . . ." They strolled up the road together to where the tractor was waiting. "Man no longer the master of his destiny, you mean?" said his companion. "Don't make me laugh too loud," returned Vane, "or the Boche might hear; unless you've killed 'em all . . ." "You're wrong, my friend--utterly wrong." They came to where the railway track crossed the road and he halted to pull out his pipe, before getting on to the little engine. "I tell you, Vane . . ." And at that moment a flight of cockchafers seemed to sweep down the road. Vane felt the stinging pain in his right shoulder, and then he looked foolishly at the gas expert . . . "You were saying," he began . . . But his late companion had taken a machine-gun bullet through his heart. CHAPTER I The beach at Paris Plage is associated in the minds of most people who went there before the war with a certain amount of gaiety. There were bands, and fair ladies, and various other delights generally connected with popular French watering-places. Incidentally the beach is a beach--not a collection of sharp boulders. There is real sand--lots of it; the sort that gets hot and comforting in the sun, and invites people who have eaten too much luncheon to sleep. And during the war, though the bands and other delights have departed, the sand has remained a source of pleasure to hundreds of people in need of a temporary rest cure. They have come from the big hospitals at Etaples; they have come from the officers' rest-house. Some have even come in motor cars from the trenches just for the day, and one and all they have lain on the beach and slept and then departed the better for it. On a certain afternoon during the height of the German offensive in the spring of 1918 a girl was sitting on the beach staring out to sea. On the horizon a black smudge of smoke stood up against the vivid blue of the sky; while, close in shore, a small sailing boat was barely making headway in the faint breeze.