o town. There wasn't anything in it, but we
did it. One man put his back against a post, while the second went on to
the next post. Then the third man mounted the first man's back, shoved
out the light, jumped clear, and ran on past the next lamp-post to the
third. The first man jumped on No. 2's back and doused his lamp, and so
on. We did the street in a few minutes, and then a constable came into it
at the top. He probably thought he was drunk, then he spotted lights
going out, and like an ass he blew his whistle. We were round a corner in
no time, and then turned and ran back to see if we could offer
assistance!"

"Some gag!" chuckled Pennell; "but I hope you won't go on that sort
of racket to-night. It would be a little more serious if we were
caught.... Also, these blighted gendarmes would probably start firing,
or some other damned thing."

"They would," said Peter; "besides, that doesn't appeal to me now. I'm
getting too old, or else my tastes have become depraved."

The one-horse cab stopped with a jerk. "Hop out," said Peter. He settled
the score, and the two of them entered the hotel and passed through into
the private bar.

"What is it to be?" demanded Pennell.

"Cocktails to-day, old son," said Peter; "I want bucking up. What do you
say to martinis?"

The other agreed, and they moved over to the bar. A monstrously fat woman
stood behind it, like some bloated spider, and a thin, weedy-looking girl
assisted her. A couple of men were already there. It was too early for
official drinks, but the Bretagne knew no law.

They ordered their drinks, and stood there while madame compounded them
and put in the cherries. Another man came in, and Peter recognised the
Australian Ferrars, whom he had met before. He introduced Pennell and
called for another martini.

"So you frequent this poison-shop, do you?" said Ferrars.

"Not much," laughed Peter, "but it's convenient."

"It is, and it's a good sign when a man like you wants a drink. I'd
sooner listen to your sermons any day than some chaps' I know."

"Subject barred here," said Pennell. "But here's the very best to you,
Graham, for all that."

"Same here," said Ferrars, and put down his empty glass.

The talk became general. There was nothing whatever in it--mild chaffing,
a yarn or two, a guarded description by Peter of his motor drive from
Abbeville, and then more drinks. And so on. The atmosphere was warm and
genial, but Peter wondered inwardly why he