They shared Marjorie’s bed that night, for misery loves company. "I say," suggested Liss suddenly, "couldn’t we go round and get a meal from the Red Cross, or somebody?" Marjorie, who was just dropping off to sleep, replied with great firmness: "The Red Cross can only assist people who have been wounded in action. If they go beyond that, the Geneva Convention allows them to be fired on; and then Roy might—No, we _can’t_ ask the Red Cross—unless we get hit in another air-raid!" she added hopefully. Having no more suggestions to offer, Liss dropped off to sleep in her favourite attitude—with her head under the pillow. Marjorie lay awake for a long time, pondering many things in her heart—speculating mainly as to whether she could last out until Baby’s flock of plutocratic second lieutenants came to town on Saturday. She decided immediately that she could, adding a mental rider condemning persons who, like herself, worried about their own personal comforts when there was a war on. She also wondered, again and again, what had become of Roy. She wondered whether he were hungry too. Presumably not. He had assured her that the British Army on the Western Front were grossly overfed—in fact, the inevitability with which the Army Service Corps got the rations up and through bordered on the uncanny. No, she need not worry about Roy’s diet. His safety was another matter. Five weeks! She dropped into a troubled sleep. *CHAPTER XV* *THE EXPLORER* Meanwhile, in a crowded street just off the Strand, in the fading light of a July evening, an elderly gentleman with a goat’s beard, spectacles on nose, was diligently examining the framed photographs exhibited outside a very popular theatre. His attention was particularly directed to a large chorus group—an ensemble of attractive young women in costumes attuned to the economical spirit of wartime. Aware of a sudden interference with the not too abundant supply of light, the elderly investigator turned round, a little guiltily, to find that he was being assisted in his investigations by three hard-breathing members of His Majesty’s Forces—an English Sapper, a Highlander, and a Canadian of enormous bulk. "And very nice, too!" observed the Sapper. "But Grandpa, not at your time of life, you didn’t ought to—reelly! ’Op it—there’s a good boy!" "Awa’ hame!" added the Scot severely—"or I’ll tell on ye tae Grandmaw!"