Down the untidy street, trotting slowly towards them over the greasy pavé, came a young Staff officer, very gorgeous of boot and tab, rifled groom trotting behind him: a Staff officer who saluted the Weasel with a fine flourish, and said: “Excuse me, sir, but this is the fourth Southdown Brigade, isn’t it?” “It is. Half of it anyway. What do _you_ want with it?” “Can I speak to your Adjutant, sir?” “Certainly. Speak to the whole damn column if you like. Here, Mr. Black, pass down the word for the Adjutant.” “Colonel wants the Adjutant. Colonel wants the Adjutant.” The words went dwindling down the line. A minute or two later our Mr. Jameson clattered up on Little Willie, looked at the face under the black-peaked hat, and said, “Good God, it’s Francis. Where on earth did you spring from?” Peter introduced his cousin, a little gaunter, a little browner, but immaculate as ever, to the Colonel. The three rode on, talking together. Soldiers and rare civilians stared incuriously at them from the narrow pavements; lorries rumbled by; an occasional dispatch-rider, phutting past, disturbed the horses. “How did you find me so quickly?” asked Peter, preliminary greetings over. “You wrote me when you sent on,” imperceptible pause, “those letters, that you were transferring to the R.A. And of course _we_ knew the moment you landed in France.” “Who’s _we_?” “G.H.Q.,” said Francis casually. “My aunt, you are a swell. Why didn’t you write and tell me where you were? I haven’t heard from you for months.” Francis explained that he had only just officially joined Intelligence, that his uniform had been bought a week since in Paris, that he was attached to the First Corps. . . . “What have you been doing since March?” asked Peter. “Oh, various jobs I’m not supposed to talk about. . . .” “Then don’t talk about ’em, young man,” put in the Weasel. “And why are you attached to the First Corps?” “To interrogate prisoners after this new show.” Purves, very _affairé_, came trotting up to the Colonel. “Don’t we turn off to the right here, sir?” “We do, my Purves, we do.” They rolled off the main street into a quiet square; threaded their way southwards out of the town, through market gardens, into flat cultivated country. “Where are you bound for?” asked Francis. Peter pulled out his map, pointed to a little green patch, “Batteries are going to that wood. We’re marching up by daylight to Annequin. See that little house at the end of the railway, just under Fosse Nine? That’s us.” “Square F 25?” “That’s right.” “Well, I must be getting back,” said Francis. “I’ll come and look you up one afternoon.” “Why not come to dinner the day after tomorrow,” invited the Colonel. “I’d like to very much, sir. About half-past seven. Very good, sir. Good-bye, sir. So long, Peter”; and Captain Francis Gordon, wheeling his horse, trotted back into the town.