rivate business Mr. Luscombe and I are transacting,'
she replied, whereupon the others laughed and passed on.

'Do you know what that Captain Springfield makes me think of?' she
asked.

'No,' I replied.

'Snakes,' she said.

As I watched the captain's retreating form, I shook my head.

'I can't help it. Have you noticed his eyes? There now, put your
diary in your pocket, and don't forget what you've promised.'

'One thing is certain,' I said to myself, as I was driven along to the
station that afternoon, 'my suspicions about George St. Mabyn are
groundless. What a fool a man is when he lets his imagination run away
with him! Here was I, building up all sorts of mad theories, and then
I meet a man who knows nothing about my thoughts, but who destroys my
theories in half a dozen sentences. Whoever Paul Edgecumbe is, it is
certain he is not Maurice St. Mabyn.'

Several months passed, and still I heard nothing of Paul Edgecumbe. I
made all sorts of inquiries, and did my best to find him, all without
success, until I came to the conclusion that the man had not joined the
Army at all. Then, suddenly, I ceased thinking about him. My
recruiting work came to an end, and I was pitchforked into the active
work of the Army. As I have said, I knew practically nothing about
soldiering, and the little I had learnt was wellnigh useless, because,
being merely an officer in the old Volunteers, my knowledge was largely
out of date. Still, there it was. New schemes for obtaining soldiers
were on foot, and as a commission had been given to me, and there being
no need for me at the University, I became a soldier, not only in name,
but in actuality. I suppose I was not altogether a failure as a
battalion officer; indeed, I was told I picked up my duties with
remarkable ease. Anyhow, I worked very hard. And then, before I had
time to realize what had happened to me, I was ordered to the front.

Some one has described life at the front as two weeks of monotony and
one week of hell. I do not say it is quite like that, although it
certainly gives a hint of the truth. When one is in the trenches, it
is often a very ghastly business, so ghastly that I will not attempt to
describe it. On the other hand, life behind the lines is dreadfully
monotonous, especially in the winter months, when the whole of our
battle-line is a sea of mud and the quintessence of discomfort. Still,
I did not fare badly. I was engaged in two s