“Are your feet cold, Alfred dear?” inquired his mother, a note of anxiety in her voice. “You've been tramping about the streets, and---- You must have a hot water bottle when you go to bed. There is so much pneumonia--” “Always mothering me, aren't you, good Frieda?” he said, lovingly. He pronounced it as if it were Friday. It was his pet name for her in the bosom of the family. “Warm as toast,” he added. He turned to Louise. “You didn't mind my running away and leaving you, did you, Louise?” “Not a bit, Alfie. I tried to get Derrol on the long distance, but they said at the Camp it was impossible to call him unless the message was very important. I--I--so I asked the man if there had been any kind of an accident out there and he said no, there hadn't. I--asked him if Captain Steele was in bed, and he said he should hope so. Don't laugh, Alfie! I know it was silly, but--but it _might_ have been an ammunition depot or something at the Camp. We didn't know--” “Ammunition, your granny! They haven't sufficient ammunition in that Camp,--or in any of 'em, for that matter,--to make a noise loud enough to be heard across the street. How can you expect me to keep a straight face when you suggest an _explosion_ in an Army Camp?” “It's high time we stopped talking about explosions and went to bed,” said Carstairs, arising. He put his arm across his wife's shoulders. “We've had all the explosions we can stand for one night, haven't we, dear? Come along, everybody. Off with you!” “Hodges should be back any moment with the latest 'extra,'” said Louise. “Can't we wait just a few minutes, Uncle Dawy? He has been gone over an hour.” The telephone bell in Mr. Carstairs' study rang. So taut were the nerves of the four persons in the adjoining room that they started violently. They looked at each other in some perplexity. “Probably Hodges,” said Alfred, after a moment. “Shall I go, dad?” “See who it is,” said Carstairs. “Wrong number, more than likely,” said his wife, wearily. “Central has been unusually annoying of late. It happens several times every day. The service is atrocious.” Young Carstairs went into the study and snatched up the receiver. Moved by a common impulse, the others followed him into the room, the face of each expressing not only curiosity hut a certain alarm. “Yes, this is Mr. Carstairs' residence.... What?... All right.” He sat down on the edge of the library table and turned to the others. “Must be long distance. They're getting somebody.”