"When does my train start?" asked Marjorie at length. "Don’t forget that I have to be back for the evening performance." Roy would inquire. "Half-past five, from the Town station," he announced on returning. "That’s some way from here. I have ordered a car, and if we start now I can go with you and see you off. That will give me just time to hop into the official leave-train coming down from London. It stops at Folkestone Town to turn round, and then backs right down to the boat." Once more the parting was staved off. However, one cannot go on pilfering minutes eternally. This time it really was good-bye. It was half-past five; and they stood on the Town station platform. "This is your train," said Roy, "standing here. Mine is due at the other platform now. There goes the signal! I must skip across the bridge. So—" He drew Marjorie behind a friendly pile of luggage. "It has been wonderful, Roy dear—wonderful!" For a moment she laid her head on Roy’s breast. "But we did one stupid thing." "What was that?" "We ought to have got married!" "I never thought of it," said Roy simply. "We were so happy, there didn’t seem to be anything else." "But we’ll remember next time!" said Marjorie. "I will give the matter my personal attention!" Roy assured her. "So-long, and take care of yourself!" *CHAPTER XIII* *ALBERT CLEGG* In the early summer of Nineteen-Seventeen Uncle Fred paid a prolonged visit to Netherby—ostensibly to renew family ties, in reality for reasons not altogether unconnected with air-raids on London. For the moment the fortunes of the war were back in the melting pot. The Battle of the Somme had bundled Brother Boche right back to the Siegfried Line, and enemy morale on the Western Front was low. The British army, fortified by twelve months of conscription, was blundering forward in characteristic fashion upon many fronts. The navy had swelled to a size undreamed of by any, and known only to few. Over the British coast alone nearly three thousand vessels of all sorts and conditions were keeping watch. The "Q" boat, too, with its crazy crew of immortals, was abroad upon the face of the waters, and the hunter had become the hunted. But there was much to be set down upon the contra side. The spring offensive of the French army, after a brilliant beginning, had faltered, then halted. There had been recriminations, inquiries, resignations; and Pétain, the saviour of Verdun, had succeeded the gallant Nivelle. To keep the enemy from benefiting by the sudden relaxation of pressure on the Chemin des Dames the British army had flung itself into the premature Battle of Arras, and once more the casualty lists had shot up.