halting-place for battalions coming back to rest.
Supposing, I argued, our enemies wanted a key-spot for some assault
upon the morale or the discipline or health of the British Army, they
couldn't find a better than Eaucourt Sainte-Anne. It was the ideal
centre of espionage. But when I guardedly sounded my friends of the
Intelligence they didn't seem to be worrying about it.

From them I got a chit to the local French authorities, and, as soon as
we came out of the line, towards the end of December, I made straight
for the country town of Douvecourt. By a bit of luck our divisional
quarters were almost next door. I interviewed a tremendous swell in a
black uniform and black kid gloves, who received me affably and put his
archives and registers at my disposal. By this time I talked French
fairly well, having a natural turn for languages, but half the rapid
speech of the _sous-prifet_ was lost on me. By and by he left me with
the papers and a clerk, and I proceeded to grub up the history of the
Chateau.

It had belonged since long before Agincourt to the noble house of the
D'Eaucourts, now represented by an ancient Marquise who dwelt at
Biarritz. She had never lived in the place, which a dozen years before
had been falling to ruins, when a rich American leased it and partially
restored it. He had soon got sick of it--his daughter had married a
blackguard French cavalry officer with whom he quarrelled, said the
clerk--and since then there had been several tenants. I wondered why a
house so unattractive should have let so readily, but the clerk
explained that the cause was the partridge-shooting. It was about the
best in France, and in 1912 had shown the record bag.

The list of the tenants was before me. There was a second American, an
Englishman called Halford, a Paris Jew-banker, and an Egyptian prince.
But the space for 1913 was blank, and I asked the clerk about it. He
told me that it had been taken by a woollen manufacturer from Lille,
but he had never shot the partridges, though he had spent occasional
nights in the house. He had a five years' lease, and was still paying
rent to the Marquise. I asked the name, but the clerk had forgotten.
'It will be written there,' he said.

'But, no,' I said. 'Somebody must have been asleep over this register.
There's nothing after 1912.'

He examined the page and blinked his eyes. 'Someone indeed must have
slept. No doubt it was young Louis who is now with the guns in
Champ