"Twenty," was the reply. "All old R.F.C. and R.N.A.S. men. Most of them have been here for quite a long time. It's a posh station, and once here a fellow doesn't want to be transferred elsewhere." In the absence of the commanding officer, the head of the table was taken by the major. On his right sat the adjutant. Next to him was placed von Preussen, who on his right had a youngster who looked barely eighteen, yet he wore a captain's uniform, embellished by the ribbons of the D.S.O. and M.C. The lunch was liberal and appetising. Deft-handed girls in W.R.A.F. uniforms were kept busily employed in attending to the wants of twenty odd ravenous officers, for the keen northern air, combined with plenty of out-door activity, created vast appetites. As the meal progressed, conversation, at first desultory, grew in volume and interest. Although "shop" figured largely, strictly official matters were rigidly tabooed. Von Preussen had again to confess that from his point of view he was getting precious little change out of the entertainment. "Did you say you were from Calshot?" inquired the officer on the spy's right. "No--from Sheerness," replied von Preussen, devoutly hoping that none of the men present had been stationed there recently. "Who said Calshot?" inquired an indignant voice lower down the table. "Beastly hole!" "What's that?" demanded the major. "Had to spend a night there, sir," was, the reply. "Forced landing. They gave me a cubicle that was more like a condemned cell. Concrete walls and floor dripping with moisture; not even a mat on the floor; a bedstead without a mattress and only two blankets. No other furniture. In the morning I had the worst breakfast I ever had on this side of the North Sea. Filthy margarine, rancid bacon and weak tea; and they took jolly good care to make me plank down half a dollar on the nail for my breakfast. Ugh! Makes me shudder to think of it." "Sheerness," remarked the captain, returning to the attack. "You must know Smithers, then? A big, fat chap, with a mole just under his eye. He's been quartermaster there since '16." Von Preussen acknowledged that he knew the quartermaster. He could not very well have denied it in the face of his inquisitor's remarks. "And Tomlinson?" continued the latter. "Suppose he's still there, but I haven't heard from him recently. A short, very dark-featured old bean, with a very dry sense of humour. Plays 'pack and brag' every available five minutes, and uses most atrocious language when he's put out and when he isn't." "Tomlinson was sent to Dunkirk last month," declared von Preussen mendaciously; then, eager to change what was a most distasteful and embarrassing topic, he inquired: "Is there a decent theatre at Auldhaig?"