r ceased, but he was growing used to the thunder of the
bombardment, until there was an explosion not far ahead in the centre of
the road, and he slowed down with a glance over his shoulder.

"That's the enemy replying," he murmured, as another shell fell in the
dark fields on the left, and another and another, so quickly that he
lost count of them.

"Bit of a danger zone, this," he thought. "The sooner I'm through it the
better," but as his thumb sought a lever there was a blinding flash very
close to him, and following on the heels of the explosion he felt his
machine quiver and the front tyre burst with a report like a rifle shot.

"By Jingo! I'm done," he cried, jumping off as his head-lamp went out.
"That's shrapnel. Now what's to be done? The tyre's in ribbons!"

As he looked ahead his heart gave a bound as he saw a motor-car pull up
some forty yards away and the driver spring out on to the road. Dennis
left the damaged cycle where it was and ran forward.

"I say, I'm in no end of a hat, chauffeur. Can you give me a hand?" he
cried.

The man stared at him with a white face, apparently dazed, and replied
in a shaky voice: "Can you give _me_ a hand, sir? Look at this!" and
unshipping one of his lamps he turned the light on to the car.

Sitting rigidly erect was the body of a staff officer, decapitated.

"Great heavens!" exclaimed Dennis, bending over with eyes of horror as
he recognised the officer who less than half an hour before had shown
him his own route at Divisional Headquarters. "It's Captain Thompson!"

"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