he boat. The boat shoved off, the bell of the engine
telegraph on the steamer resounded sharply, and the vessel
resumed her interrupted voyage whilst the rowing boat was headed
towards the destroyer. On board the latter vessel an officer met
Desmond at the rail and piloted him to the ward-room. Almost
before they got there, the destroyer was under way.

The officer who had welcomed him proved to be the second in
command, a joyous person who did the honors of the tiny ward-room
with the aplomb of a Commander in a super-Dreadnought. He mixed
Desmond a drink and immediately started to converse about life at
the front without giving the other a chance of asking whither
they were bound.

The suspense was not of long duration, however, for in about half
an hour's time, the destroyer slowed down and Desmond's host
vanished. When he reappeared, it was to summon Desmond on deck.

They lay aside a mole by some steps cut in the solid concrete.
Here Desmond's host took leave of him.

"There should be a car waiting for you up there," he said.

There on top of the mole, exposed to the keen blast of the wind,
a large limousine was standing. A chauffeur, who looked blue with
cold, got down from his seat as Desmond emerged from the stairs
and touched his cap.

"Major Okewood?" he asked.

"That's my name!" said Desmond.

"If you'll get in, sir, we'll start at once!" the man replied.

Befogged and bewildered, Desmond entered the car, which
cautiously proceeded along the breakwater, with glimpses of black
water and an occasional dim light on either hand. They bumped
over the railway-lines and rough cobblestones of a dockyard,
glided through a slumbering town, and so gradually drew out into
the open country where the car gathered speed and fairly raced
along the white, winding road. Desmond had not the faintest idea
of their whereabouts or ultimate destination. He was fairly
embarked on the great adventure now, and he was philosophically
content to let Fate have its way with him. He found himself
wondering rather indolently what the future had in store.

The car slowed down and the chauffeur switched the headlights on.
Their blinding glare revealed some white gate-posts at the
entrance of a quiet country station. Desmond looked at his watch.
It was half-past one. The car stopped at the entrance to the
booking-office where a man in an overcoat and bowler was waiting.

"This way, Major, please," said the man in the bowler, and