ty to fold
up the end one and slip it into his pocket; and he had just succeeded
when the general added the last scrawl to his indecipherable signature.

"Place this in an envelope," he said, "and deliver it yourself into the
hands of the Oberst" (colonel).

"And the second copy, your excellency?" volunteered the supposed Heft.

"Place it upon the file as usual, and be off!"

The three men resumed their excited conversation, to which he would
dearly have loved to listen.

But he filed the sheet, made an elaborate salute, and joined the
sergeant, who was waiting in the communication.

"Where are we going?" whispered the man, when they were out of earshot.

"To Peronne," replied Dennis.

"Good! I am not sorry!" grunted the sergeant. "I have had enough of
these cursed Englanders! Let the Prussians come and see how they like
it. It was their war."

All doubt as to how he would find the battalion to which he was supposed
to belong was resolved by the sergeant turning sharply to the right, and
already Dennis began to feel a little easier in his mind.

Obviously a man employed on the headquarters staff would to some extent
lose touch with his comrades; and as the sergeant had not discovered
him, he might very possibly pass unrecognised--unless, of course, the
real Carl Heft turned up!

Not that he was happy by any manner of means, for he did not see his way
an inch beyond the broad back of the man he was following; and before he
could formulate any plan, the sergeant saluted a stout officer with the
words: "An order from his excellency, Herr Colonel!"

The stout man snatched the paper, read it, and looked up at the sky,
which was cloudy and lowering.

"Very well," he said gravely. "Let the men fall in by companies at
once." And he retired into his own dug-out, which was a few paces away,
to secure some of his personal belongings.

With incredible quickness the word was passed along the trench, and
Dennis found himself shouldering up in a jostling line, staring at the
sandbags in front of him, while sergeants shouted as a low murmur rolled
along the trench. If only he could make one dash over those sandbags he
might be free, but the thing was impossible; and, picking up a rifle, he
resumed his place, wondering what Bob and Wetherby and the other fellows
would say if he lived to tell them of this extraordinary adventure.

A tall captain with a foxy face and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses forced
his way along the