At half-past ten, the party broke up; Lodden, and Torrington (who had refused to desert his battery dug-out for a comfortable room at Headquarters) returning across the fields to their gun-pits: Purves, the Doctor and Morency retiring to bed. “Do you mind if Peter drives home with me, sir?” asked Francis, “I’ll send him back in the car.” “All right,”—the little red-headed soldier looked up from his newspaper—“I’ll hold the fort till my Adjutant comes back.” The two cousins strolled out, found the car waiting. “All quiet on the Beuvry road?” asked Francis of the chauffeur. “There were a few shells while you were at dinner, sir.” “Well, don’t switch on your headlights till we’re through Beuvry.” They climbed into the comfortable limousine; and purred off through Annequin village, shuttered and asleep; swung to the west. “Heard from Pat?” asked Francis. “Yesterday. She’s with her father.” “Let me see, that’s Harley Street, isn’t it? I’ll drop her a line myself tomorrow. One can’t write much on these ‘hush’ jobs. I’ve been in Spain, the last three months. By the way, Peter, you’re grown very silent since I saw you last. . . .” Peter lit a cigar, and his cousin saw, in the light of the match, new lines on the firm face, a trace of gray in the dark hair: “Oh, I’ve been having a pretty thin time, one way and the other.” “Money?” “Yes.” “Where’s Arthur?” “Arthur came home. He’s in the R.F.C.[8] somewhere or other. Rummy devil. Rather like you. Never writes letters.” They came without mishap into the great Place of Béthune; and Peter saw, black by moonlight, round holes in the shining roofs—sole sign of long-range bombardment. The car stopped. “This is my billet. Come in and have a drink, old man.” They passed up a flight of stairs; Francis drew matches from his pocket; lit candles on the mantelpiece. Between them—like a saint’s picture on a shrine—stood a photograph, a brand-new photograph of Beatrice Cochrane! ----- [8] Royal Flying Corps. PART FOURTEEN ATTACK! § 1 Half past nine at night, Friday, September the 24th, 1915! In the quiet roomy library of Doctor Baynet’s home in Harley Street, London, Patricia sat talking to her father. “He says in this letter, that they aren’t in action yet.” The gold head lifted from the pencilled scrawl she had been studying: the dark eyes looked quietly towards the man at the littered desk. “I’m glad of that, my dear,” said Heron Baynet; and went on with his work. § 2 Nine-thirty, “pip emma,” on the last day of the Loos bombardment.