There was a moment’s rather tense silence. The young man’s lips had come together, his eyes flashed. “I did not recognise you, Major Thomson,” he said calmly. “Have you found a new billet?” “My old one is sufficiently absorbing just at present,” the other replied laying his calculations on the General’s desk. “Forgive my interrupting you, sir, but you told me to let you have this as soon as I had finished. That is my estimate of the number of beds we could stow away in the cubic feet you offer us.” The General glanced at the paper and nodded. “Don’t go, Thomson,” he said. “I’ll talk to you about this later on. Well, Captain Granet,” he added, “you’d better leave things in my hands. I’ll do the best I can for you.” “I shall be very disappointed if I don’t get out to the Front again soon, sir,” the young man declared simply. “I’ll do the best I can,” the General repeated, touching his bell. Granet was shown out and the door was closed. General Brice turned towards his companion. “Thomson,” he said, “frankly, I can’t believe it. However, we’ll find him a billet where he can’t possibly do any mischief.” “If you found him a billet where I should like to see him,” Surgeon-Major Thomson observed bitterly, “he would never do any more mischief in this world! Any dispatches from the Front, sir?” General Brice raised his eyebrows. “Are you off again?” he asked. “I am going to see that young man’s General,” Thomson replied. “I shall cross over to-day and be back to-morrow night or Saturday morning.” General Brice nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps you are right,” he assented. “Yes, I shall have a few reports. You’d better let them know at the Admiralty, and what time you want to go over.” Surgeon-Major Thomson shook hands with the General and turned towards the door. “When I come back,” he said, “I hope I’ll be able to convince even you, sir.” CHAPTER X Surgeon-Major Thomson awoke about twelve hours later with a start. He had been sleeping so heavily that he was at first unable to remember his whereabouts. His mind moved sluggishly across the brief panorama of his hurried journey--the special train from Victoria to Folkestone; the destroyer which had brought him and a few other soldiers across the Channel, black with darkness, at a pace which made even the promenade deck impossible; the landing at Boulogne, a hive of industry notwithstanding the darkness; the clanking of waggons, the shrieking of locomotives, the jostling of crowds, the occasional flashing of an electric torch. And then the ride in the great automobile through the misty night. He rubbed his eyes and looked around him. A grey morning was breaking. The car had come to a standstill before a white gate, in front of which was stationed a British soldier, with drawn bayonet. Surgeon-Major Thomson pulled himself together and answered the challenge. “A friend,” he answered,--“Surgeon-Major Thomson, on his Majesty’s service.”