ed as they were when he had left them.

"What was it, Scott?" asked Carstairs. "Has the British army taken
Berlin?"

"No, nor has the German army taken London."

"Good old London! I'd like to drop down on it for a while just now."

"They say that at night it's as black as this trench. Zeppelins!"

"I could find my way around it in the dark. I'd go to the Ritz or the
Carlton and order the finest dinner for three that the most experienced
chef ever heard of. You don't know how good a dinner I can give--if I
only have the money. I invite you both to become my guests in London as
soon as this war is over and share my gustatory triumph."

"I accept," said John.

"And I too," said Wharton, "though we may have to send to Berlin for our
captive host."

"Never fear," said Carstairs. "I wasn't born to be taken. What did
Captain Colton want with you, Scott, if it's no great military or state
secret?"

"To see Fernand Weber, the Alsatian, whom you must remember."

"Of course we recall him! Didn't we take that dive in the river
together? But he's an elusive chap, regular will-o'-the-wisp, messenger
and spy of ours, and other things too, I suppose."

"He's done me some good turns," said John. "Been pretty handy several
times when I needed a handy man most. He brought news that Mademoiselle
Julie Lannes and her servants, the Picards, father and daughter, are on
their way to or are at Chastel, a little village not far from here,
where the French have established a huge hospital for the wounded. She
left Paris in obedience to a letter from her brother, and we are to tell
Philip if we should happen to see him."

"Pretty girl! Deucedly pretty!" said Carstairs.

"I don't think the somewhat petty adjective 'pretty' is at all
adequate," said John with dignity.

"Maybe not," said Carstairs, noticing the earnest tone in his comrade's
voice. "She's bound to become a splendid woman. Is Weber still with the
captain?"

"No, he's gone on his mission, whatever it is."

"A fine night for travel," said Wharton sardonically. "A raw wind,
driving snow, pitchy darkness, slush and everything objectionable
underfoot. Yet I'd like to be in Weber's place. A curse upon the man who
invented life in the trenches! Of all the dirty, foul, squalid monotony
it is this!"

"You'll have to curse war first," said John. "War made the trench."

"Here comes a man with an electric torch," said Carstairs. "Something is
going to happen in our happy liv