At the distant end of the long, light, shining room, the deck-like run of the polished boards was broken by a step leading to a platform where the rigidly-erect figures of three men in dark blue uniform sat at the middle, and at either end of a long narrow table burdened with instruments whose use Bawne partly knew. The midmost operator, sitting with his back to you, wore a head-band with receiver ear-pieces, beyond which his ears, large, thick, and red as quarter-pounds of beefsteak, projected in a singularly grotesque way. The man seated on the right of the table had a paper-pad and pencil, and the man on the left sat in front of a typewriter, with lowered intent eyes and fingers crooked above the keys, as one waiting to type off a Wireless message, and the tingling desire to approach and see the apparatus more closely evoked a wiggle on the part of the boy that was grimly checked by a big hard hand that gripped his arm. This reminded him that he was a prisoner. Like von Herrnung, Bawne thought and—then upon his right he became aware of von Herrnung, green as a drowned man—and with all the stiffening gone out of him—wilting over the supporting arms of two officers of the garrison. And then a voice said something shrilly and harshly—and Saxham’s son found himself looking into a pair of steel-blue, shining, flickering eyes, with whites curiously veined with red. The man to whom the eyes belonged sat immediately facing you, on the opposite side of a big kneehole writing-table with rows of drawers in its pedestals, and official-looking ledgers upon it, also files of papers, dispatch-cases, three big inkstands, and the shining metal pillar of a telephone transmitter, the base of which the officer gripped with his right hand as he leaned forwards, sharply scrutinising you. The hand was large and muscular, with short, thick, crooked fingers, covered with jewelled rings that sparkled in the sun. Half a dozen other officers stood at some little distance behind the seated personage.... Five out of the six wore the Service dress of grey-green serge, with spiked helmets covered with the same material. Badges, buckles, chain-straps, and the hilts of swords curved or straight were dulled to rigorous uniformity, and belts, gloves, and boots were of earth, not tan-coloured, brown. Thus much Bawne grasped, but of these individualities, save one, he got no clear impression. You were obliged to look at, and think of, the man sitting in the chair.