“But hang it all,” said the Consul, “I don’t know anything about you. You turn up at seven o’clock in the morning. You start by talking Italian. Then you ask for a cigarette in English. Now you want me to let you use our secret code-book, and to pay for the cable out of government funds. . . .” “And after that,” yawned Francis, “I want to sleep in your spare bed-room till the answer arrives.” Mr. Towsey felt himself in an awkward position. Italy was still neutral; the diplomatic situation growing hourly more complicated. Then he looked sharply at the bedraggled weary man in the black _soutane_; decided to take the risk. “Here, write your telegram,” he said, pushing paper and pencil across the desk. “I suppose you don’t want to code it yourself.” “Oh, Lord, no.” Francis, eyes dizzy with sleep, wrote rapidly. “_Please inform I.D.W.O. that No. 63 has arrived consulate Milan with important information. Stop. Can arrangements be made for him to be met at Modane by car and proceed direct to G.H.Q. France. Stop. Please request consul here to advance one thousand lire for clothes and travelling expenses. End._” Said Mr. Towsey, reading it, “I think I’d better address this to Mr. Montgomery. . . .” But Francis Gordon had fallen fast asleep. * * * * * He awoke, some fifteen hours later, frightened out of his wits; remembered that the need for fear had passed; crawled off a sofa; fumbled about for the electric switch; clicked on the light. The noise of his getting-up disturbed his host from the deciphering of a cable which read, “_Please advance to person for whom you sent cable No. 3426 any monies he requires. Stop. Order him proceed Modane soonest possible and report to French authorities who will have full instructions. Montgomery._” * * * * * “I’m most awfully obliged to you, Mr. Towsey,” said Francis Gordon next morning: a clean-shaven Francis Gordon dressed in a green ready-made Italian suit, bright yellow boots on his feet, bright yellow bag in his hand. “Just as a last favour, would you mind having these posted for me.” He handed over three letters, one—which began “My dear Beatrice, I have to apologize for leaving you so long without news”—addressed care of the Guaranty Trust Company, New York; the second to “P. Jameson, Esq.,” and the third to “H. T. Prout, 10 Mecklinburgh Square, London W.” Then, having shaken hands with his host, he lit a cigarette, and strolled creakily downstairs to the waiting taxi. . . . § 6 Francis’ letter reached his cousin on the morning Peter and Bromley saw their transfer gazetted in the _Morning Post_. The answer to it, a packet containing two letters and a postcard addressed “Poste Restante, St. Omer,” was in Peter’s pocket as they stood in the Chalkshires’ Orderly Room, bidding Colonel Andrews good-bye.