esmond saw a man with a tumbler in his hand bending over him.

"That's right," said the man, looking very intently at him, "feel
a bit better, eh? Got a bit of a crack, what? Just take a
mouthful of brandy... I've got it here!"

Desmond obediently swallowed the contents of the glass that the
other held to his lips. He was feeling horribly weak, and very
cold. His collar and shirt were unbuttoned, and his neck and
shoulders were sopping wet with water. On his ears still fell the
wailing of the woman.

"Corporal," said the man bending over him, "just go and tell that
old hag to hold her noise! She'll have to go out of the house if
she can't be quiet!"

Desmond opened his eyes again. He was lying on the settee in the
library. A tall figure in khaki, who had been stirring the fire
with his boot, turned at the doctor's summons and left the room.
On the table the lamp was still burning but its rays were
neutralized by the glare of a crimson dawn which Desmond could
see flushing the sky through the shattered panes of the French
window. In the centre of the floor lay a long object covered by a
tablecloth, beside it a table overturned with a litter of broken
glass strewn about the carpet.

The woman's sobbing ceased. The corporal came back into the room.

"She'll be quiet now, sir," he said, "I told her to get you and
the gentlemen a cup o' tea."

Then, to Desmond, he said:

"Nasty ding you got, sir! My word, I thought they'd done for you
when I come in at the winder!"

The telephone on the desk tingled sharply. The door opened at the
same moment and a shabby little old man with sandy side whiskers
and moleskin trousers came briskly in.

His appearance had a curious effect on the patient on the settee.
Despite the doctor's restraining hand, he struggled into a
sitting position, staring in bewilderment at the shabby old man
who had gone straight to the telephone and lifted the receiver.
And well might Desmond stare; for here was Mr. John Hill, the odd
man, talking on the telephone. And his voice...

"Well?" said the man at the telephone, curtly.

"Yes, speaking. You've got her, eh? Good. What's that? Well,
that's something. No trace of the others? Damn!"

He slammed down the receiver and turned to face the settee.

"Francis!" cried Desmond.

And then he did a thing highly unbecoming in a field officer. He
burst into tears.

CHAPTER XX. THE ODD MAN

Desmond and Francis Okewood sat in the dining-room of