“There you are,” said Mademoiselle. She added, as if there might be some doubt as to ownership: “You can see that it is ours. Here is our name, not our proprietors!” Sure enough, on a flat plaster panel was a partially effaced inscription: “Marie Bienheureuse--prie pour--de Benoit Vanderl--femme Marthe--Juin 187----” The A.P.M. lighted a cigar, and surveyed the ruins. He was feeling extremely well, and was able to take a detached unofficial attitude. “Oh, so that’s the Virgin, is it?” “No. That is the place for the image. The image is broken, as I told you, and we removed the pieces.” “Very good. Then I understand you claim a thousand francs for the damage to the brick-work and the--er--altar furniture which was--ah, broken--it seems too much, you know!” “Perhaps, sir, you are not well ack-vainted with the price of building materials!” (Ah, thought Dormer, she speaks pretty good English, but that word did her.) “Oh, I think so, I’m a bit of a farmer myself, you know. I have a place in Hampshire, where I breed cattle.” Mademoiselle’s voice seemed to rise and harden: “Yes, sir; but if you are rich, that is not a reason that you should deny justice to us, who are poor. I do not know if I can get this altar repaired, and even if I can there is also the question of the _effraction_----” “The what?” “Legal damages for breaking in--trespass, sir,” put in Dormer, alarmed by the use of French. He could see she was getting annoyed, and wished the A.P.M., the lunch, the claim, the farm and the War, all the blessed caboodle, were with the devil. “Oh, I see.” “Et puis, and then there are _dédommagements_--what would you say if I were to knock down your Mother’s tomb?” “What’s that. Oh, I can’t say, I’m sure. I really can’t go into all this. Captain Dormer, there is obviously no arrest to be made. It is purely a claim for compensation. I will leave it to you. I must be getting back. _Comprenez_, Mademoiselle, this officer will hear what you have to say and will settle the whole matter with you. Famous lunch you gave us. Au revoir. If you care for a game of bridge this evening, Dormer, come round to B Mess!” Dormer took out his field notebook and conducted the inquiry partly in English, partly in French. They sat in the cavernous old tiled kitchen, half-filled with the stove and its stupefying heat, half with the table, scrubbed until the grain of the wood stood out in ribs. Mademoiselle Vanderlynden had dismissed the A.P.M. from her mind with the remark that he was a droll type, and gave Dormer her full attention, rather as if he had been a dull boy in the lowest class, and she his teacher. “When did this occur?” “Why, in April. It was wet, or he would not have done it!” “Did you see it done?” “Yes. I even tried to stop it!” “Where were you?” “Why naturally I was at that hole in the fence. One cannot always hire a boy to keep the cattle from straying.” “Well?” “Well, then the troops came in. They were not pretty to see!”