“Yes, dear.” Alice looked up; saw, pushing squirrel-wise through the revolving door, a familiar figure. The figure came towards her, and she recognized—after a minute’s hesitation at the disguise of khaki—our Mr. Jameson. Bromley, following leisurely, heard her say, “Is it really you, Peter?” and then, “This is Douglas.” “How do you do, sir,” Peter shook hands, introduced his friend. “Cocktails, I think,” remarked the Weasel. “Who is he?” he asked his wife, while the two were depositing hats and coats in the cloak-room opposite. “Peter Jameson. He married a great friend of mine,” she whispered. “Better invite ’em both to dinner.” Alice nodded: and the invitation was accepted over the cocktail glasses. They passed through the glass door into the dining-room—Bromley, always shy with strangers, last—and were escorted through the crowd to an empty table. Said the Colonel, handling the wine-list, “We can manage a Magnum, I think.” They settled down to hors d’œuvres and gossip. “Are you on leave, sir?” Bromley ventured his first remark. “Leave? No such luck. I’m commanding one of these Kitchener Brigades.” He gave the number. “Southdown Division, I believe they call it.” “Then we are going to have some Artillery,” put in Peter. “I was told at the War Office, when I applied for my commission that there wasn’t going to be any Artillery with the new Armies.” “Who told you that fairy-tale?” said Stark. “A Colonel Thompson.” “Oh, Cocky Thompson. Just like him. Pulling your leg, of course. So you joined the Infanteers, thinking the war would be done before you could get your kit. And you”—he turned to Bromley—“you’re a Cavalryman if ever I saw one!” Bromley explained himself: the Colonel, who never put questions without a reason, following sharply. “Like the Chalkshires?” he queried suddenly: and gathered, from the tone of the answer, all he wanted to know. The Weasel, in addition to having one of the best heads for strong liquor in the Gunners, was no mean judge of a man. Also, the “fourth Southdown Brigade” of the R.F.A.[2] needed officers badly. He let his wife change the conversation. “And how does Pat like you’re being a soldier?” she said to Peter. “Fancy her being only a subaltern’s ‘poor thing,’ and me a ‘Colonel’s lady’! Does she come down here often?” “She’s coming down for Christmas.” Bromley and the Weasel began to talk horse; the dinner went on. . . . “And Francis?” asked Alice. “What is our Francis Gordon doing for his country?” Bromley broke off from a discussion on “Birdcatcher blood,” said “That isn’t _the_ Francis Gordon, is it? The chap who wrote ‘The Nut Errant’?” “Extraordinary,” thought Peter, having explained the relationship, “how many people _do_ know that weird cousin of mine.” And he wondered, for the fiftieth time, what could have happened to Francis. But of Mr. “Raymond P. Sellers” and the Amsterdam trip, he said nothing. . . .