"It was Captain Thompson, and one of the nicest gentlemen I've ever driven," said the man. "I don't know what to do. He told me he was taking a message to the French general on the other side of Hardecourt, and that it was of the very greatest importance. We were doing sixty miles an hour, even on this road, when that shell copped us." There were sobs in the man's voice as he pointed to the leather dispatch-case still clutched tightly in the dead hand. "Look here," said Dennis. "My machine's smashed up. How long would it take you to reach the French lines?" "A quarter of an hour--twenty minutes at the outside. But what's the good of that, sir? I can't speak a word of their blooming language." "I can," said Dennis, gently disengaging the wallet. "I'll carry the dispatch, and I'll drive if you like, if your nerve's gone." "My nerve's all right, sir. Haven't any left after eighteen months of this job," and as Dennis climbed into the front seat, the chauffeur turned the handle over and the engine began to whir. It was good to turn one's back on that hideous thing, and when they heard the headless trunk topple over on to the floor of the car behind them, both shivered, and the chauffeur's knuckles stood out white as he gripped the steering-wheel. "I've seen two officers, one a brigadier-general, treated the same way, and their shover huddled forward against the screen dead as a door nail," said the man. "That was up near St. Julien, when Princess Pat's got wiped out; but it sort of hits you when you know the man, and this was his own car too. You'd better have your papers ready now, sir; they'll stop us at yonder white house." The examining post at the little cabaret detained them, but did not hold them up more than a moment or so. "A dispatch for Monsieur le General," said Dennis to the sergeant in charge, who recoiled as he saw the tragedy that had taken place. "_Decapite, mon Dieu!_" he exclaimed. "Pass, mon lieutenant," and they proceeded, leaving a red pool on the road where the car had halted. While Dennis was inside the farmhouse a crowd of commiserating officers surrounded the car, and they would have rid it of its grim burden and interred poor Thompson among the little harvest of rude crosses that marked where their own dead were laid, but when one of them, who spoke English, suggested so doing, the chauffeur said "No." "Beg your pardon, sir, but he'll be better buried in our own lines, where they'll give him the Last Post and all that." He was protesting when Dennis came out again quickly. "It's a very good thing we took the bull by the horns," he said. "That message was tremendously important, and the general has been good enough to say all kinds of nice things about our bringing it along. We've got to go back top speed to Divisional Headquarters," and he stepped in.