She said in a helpless sort of way: “I hope you’re not seriously hurt?” He opened his eyes. “No, no. My head’s pretty thick. But I’m not as young as I was. By the way, you were talking of a Zeppelin. That’s a German airship, isn’t it?” “Why—of course——” He raised himself on his elbow, and his eyes flashed beneath his knit brows. “Why should German airships be dropping bombs on the moor?” Mrs. Pillivant regarded him uncomprehendingly. “I’ve told you. They had to get rid of their bombs before they landed.” “But what were they carrying bombs for?” “I wouldn’t worry about that now,” she replied rather nervously. “I don’t think you realize how very ill you are.” “I’m not ill—not out of my mind, at any rate. I want to know. Why should they carry bombs? Wait a bit. I’m all right now. My mind’s clear. You said the airship came down in flames and the brutes were killed. Tell me what it means.” “Surely you’ve heard of the air raids? Read about them in the papers?” “I see no newspapers,” said Baltazar. “Air raids? For God’s sake tell me what you mean?” She glanced round to see that access to the door was clear. His aspect—his shaggy hair clotted with blood and dirt—his eyes gleaming from a haggard, grimed and bloody face—the filth of his half-nakedness—alone would have frightened a timorous woman. And his words were those of a madman. She giggled hysterically. “I suppose you’ve heard there’s a European war on?” He sat up. “War! What war?” Mrs. Pillivant fled from the room. Baltazar rose to his feet. War? War with Germany? Naturally Germany, because Zeppelins were German airships. A European war, the woman had said. His glance for the first time fell upon a newspaper on the dining-room table, open at the middle page. Forgetful of pain and exhaustion, he strode and seized it—and the headlines held him spellbound by their bewildering revelation. Great Britain, France, Italy, Russia, Germany, Austria, Bulgaria . . . all Europe at war. The basic facts stood out in great capital letters. He was staring at the print, absorbed as never had he been in his life before, when a heavy hand on his shoulder aroused him. He turned to meet the fat and smiling face of Pillivant. “I’ve fixed it all up—doctor, police, ambulance. I’ll take some in the Rolls-Royce, the doctor the others in his car. We’ll have the Chink back in no time.” “The what?” asked Baltazar, with a swift glance. “The Chink—the Chinaman——” “Oh, yes. My friend, Mr. Quong Ho. If you don’t mind, I’ll come with you.” “My dear fellow, that’s impossible. You must go to bed. It’s no trouble. There are fifteen bedrooms in the house. You can take your choice. Hasn’t Mrs. Pillivant been in to see you?” “She did me that honour.” “Then why the dickens didn’t she have you attended to? I’ll see about it.” He was already at the door when Baltazar checked him.