"The Bosche broke through up by Souchez last night," he said, pointing a fat thumb towards the locality of the firing line. "He broke through in hundreds. He is unable to get back now and he is roving all over the country." "They haven't been captured?" said Fitzgerald. "Some of them," said Jean. "Most of them perhaps, but not all. Last night they were about here." "Here?" enquired Fitzgerald. "Did you see them?" "Have I seen them?" asked Jean, shivering with laughter. "They can't be seen. They disguise themselves as turnips, as bushes, as English soldiers.... Last night two of your countrymen, soldiers, left here at nine o'clock; and got killed." Jean paused. "Where were they killed?" asked Fitzgerald. "You are billeted at Y---- Farm, are you not?" enquired the innkeeper. "You are. Then you came along the road to-night coming here. Did you see a ruined cottage on your right, a little distance back from the road?" "A mile from here?" said Fitzgerald. "Yes, we saw it." "That is where it happened," said Jean Lacroix. "The two soldiers were found there this morning with their throats cut, lying on the floor." Fitzgerald got to his feet and entered an outer room. There he found a copy of an English magazine lying on a chair. He picked it up and presently was deep in an article which tried to prove that war would be a thing of the past if Prussia ceased to exist. When he had finished reading he came back to the man by the stove and found him sitting there all alone, his eyes fixed on the flames. Benners was not there, he had left, accompanied by Spudhole and the sergeant. The farm in which their company was billeted was some two miles off. Fitzgerald looked at his watch and saw that it was nine o'clock. "Nine o'clock," he said aloud, and something familiar in the words struck him. Two soldiers left the wine shop the night previous at nine o'clock and next morning they were discovered lying in a ruined cottage with their throats cut. None of the men now in the inn were billeted at Y---- Farm. Fitzgerald had to go home alone. He swung his bandolier over his shoulder, lifted his rifle from the table and went out into the night. The story which Jean Lacroix had told affected Fitzgerald strongly. A stranger in a new locality he was ready to give credence to any tale.