we must have missed, and the bulk of them have got clear
away somehow. What are you going to do, Bob?"

Bob Dashwood lit a cigarette before he replied. Then he reloaded his
revolver.

"Those two runners should have reached our supports," he said; "and the
field wire will be coming up now. We'll chance our arm, Den, and take
possession of the place. Come on, Reedshires!" And he climbed out.

Another rush of brown figures ran forward to the big gate, and Hawke,
who was the first to reach it, held up a warning hand as he thrust his
head round one of the brick piers, expecting nothing less than
machine-guns.

But the place seemed deserted, although the trampled garden bore every
sign of recent occupation. A bullock had been slaughtered by the
fountain, and its horns and hide lay there. The flower beds had been
ruthlessly trodden under foot, but a wealth of beautiful blossom still
remained, and Harry Hawke plucked a Gloire de Dijon rose and chewed the
stem between his teeth as he scampered up the grass slope on to the
terrace.

The front door was wide open, as were several of the white casement
windows, and from a magnificent candelabra suspended from the ceiling of
the hall guttering candles threw a blaze of yellow light on to the tiled
floor.

Even Hawke gaped with astonishment at the gorgeous gilded decorations of
the walls and the white marble staircase that led to the upper floor.

"Why, it's like Madame Tussord's arter yer paid yer bob to go in," he
said.

"And they've made a chamber of horrors of it," muttered Dennis, who
overheard him, as he looked at the shattered mirrors, the full-length
portraits fluttering in rags in their frames, and the gilt furniture,
whose upholstery of silk brocade showed the traces of muddy boots and
spurred heels.

One end of the hall was taken up by a huge open fireplace carved with
life-size figures of laughing nymphs and fawns, and, with that coarse
imbecility which passes current in Germany for humour, some wag had
daubed the noses of the figures with vermilion.

Empty wine bottles lay beside a priceless marquetry table, whose top had
been burned with cigar ends; and as the men scattered rapidly through
the adjoining rooms, they found everywhere traces of German "kultur"
which the vandals had left behind them.

Upstairs it was the same thing; hangings torn and slashed for the mere
lust of destruction, smashed china, objectionable caricatures scrawled
upon the walls, and