ons to attention.

'By God,' he said, 'it's the man. What's your name? Keep him covered,
Angus.'

The gillies duly covered me, and I did not like the look of their
wavering barrels. They were obviously as surprised as myself.

I had about half a second to make my plans. I advanced with a very
stiff air, and asked him what the devil he meant. No Lowland Scots for
me now. My tone was that of an adjutant of a Guards' battalion.

My inquisitor was a tall man in an ulster, with a green felt hat on his
small head. He had a lean, well-bred face, and very choleric blue eyes.
I set him down as a soldier, retired, Highland regiment or cavalry, old
style.

He produced a telegraph form, like the policeman.

'Middle height--strongly built--grey tweeds--brown hat--speaks with a
colonial accent--much sunburnt. What's your name, sir?'

I did not reply in a colonial accent, but with the hauteur of the
British officer when stopped by a French sentry. I asked him again what
the devil he had to do with my business. This made him angry and he
began to stammer.

'I'll teach you what I have to do with it. I'm a deputy-lieutenant of
this county, and I have Admiralty instructions to watch the coast. Damn
it, sir, I've a wire here from the Chief Constable describing you.
You're Brand, a very dangerous fellow, and we want to know what the
devil you're doing here.'

As I looked at his wrathful eye and lean head, which could not have
held much brains, I saw that I must change my tone. If I irritated him
he would get nasty and refuse to listen and hang me up for hours. So my
voice became respectful.

'I beg your pardon, sir, but I've not been accustomed to be pulled up
suddenly, and asked for my credentials. My name is Blaikie, Captain
Robert Blaikie, of the Scots Fusiliers. I'm home on three weeks' leave,
to get a little peace after Hooge. We were only hauled out five days
ago.' I hoped my old friend in the shell-shock hospital at Isham would
pardon my borrowing his identity.

The man looked puzzled. 'How the devil am I to be satisfied about that?
Have you any papers to prove it?'

'Why, no. I don't carry passports about with me on a walking tour. But
you can wire to the depot, or to my London address.'

He pulled at his yellow moustache. 'I'm hanged if I know what to do. I
want to get home for dinner. I tell you what, sir, I'll take you on
with me and put you up for the night. My boy's at home, convalescing,
and if he says you're