Over his head was the photograph of a man whom the curate recognised instantly as Sir Edward Carson; and beneath the photograph was an illuminated text which on closer scrutiny turned out to be the Solemn League and Covenant. Facing the great Unionist Leader on the opposite wall was the Emperor of the French. The likeness between the two famous Imperialists was curiously marked; and they seemed aware of it, staring across the room at each other over the body of their prostrate admirer with intimacy, understanding, mutual admiration. Almost you expected them to wink at each other--a knowing wink. Mr. Spink now told his chief the whole story as it affected Alf. Much of it the Archdeacon had already heard from his wife. "I'd better see him," he now said grimly. And the Archdeacon was not the only one who wanted to see Alf just then. That afternoon, just as he was starting out with the car, he was called up on the telephone. The Director of Recruiting wished to see him at the Town Hall--to-morrow--11 a.m., sharp. The voice was peremptory and somehow familiar. Alf was perturbed. What was up now? "Who is the Director of Recruiting here?" he asked Mr. Trupp a few minutes later. "Colonel Lewknor," the old surgeon answered. "Just appointed. All you young men of military age come under him now." Alf winced. The Colonel's office was in the Town Hall, and one of the first men to come and sign on there was Joe Burt. The Colonel, as he took in the engineer, saw at once that the hurricane which was devastating the world had wrought its will upon this man too. The Joe Burt he had originally known four years ago stood before him once again, surly, shy, and twinkling. "Good luck to you," said the Colonel as they shook hands. "And try to be an honest man. You were meant to be, you know." "A'm as honest as soom and honester than most, A reckon," the engineer answered dogged as a badgered schoolboy. The Colonel essayed to look austere. "You'd better go before you get into worse trouble," he said. Joe went out, grinning. "Ah, A'm not the only one," he mumbled. Outside in the passage he met Alf, and paused amazed. "You goin to enlist!" he roared. "Never!" and marched on, his laughter rollicking down the corridor like a huge wind. Alf entered the Colonel's office delicately: he had reasons of his own to fear everything that wore khaki. The Colonel sat at his desk like a death's head, a trail of faded medal-ribands running across his khaki chest. He was thin, spectral, almost cadaverous. But his voice was gentle, as always; his manner as always, most courteous. Nothing could be more remote from the truculence of the Army manner of tradition. He was the spider talking to the fly. "I'm afraid this is a very serious matter, Mr. Caspar," he began; and it was a favourite opening of his. "It seems you've been taking away the character of the wife of a member of His Majesty's forces now in France..."