y. He was thinking that on the boulevards the
newsboys might now be crying a later edition of the papers than that
which he held, an edition with still more details. He saw them
surrounded in the darkened street by quiet, anxious groups.

"Will you give me your ticket, monsieur?" the porter continued, and as
Hillyard looked at him vacantly, "the ticket for your seat."

Hillyard roused himself.

"I beg your pardon. I have a compartment in the sleeping-car, numbers
eleven and twelve."

Amongst many old principles of which Martin Hillyard had first learned
the wisdom during these last years, none had sunk deeper than this--that
the head of an organisation cannot do the work of any of its members and
hope that the machine will run smoothly. His was the task of supervision
and ultimate direction. He held himself at the beck and call of those
who worked under him. He responded to their summons. And it was in
response to a very urgent summons from Fairbairn that he had hurried the
completion of certain arrangements with the French authorities in Paris
and was now returning to the south! But he was going very reluctantly.

It was July, 1916. The first battle of the Somme, launched some days
past, was at its very climacteric. The casualties had been and were
terrible. Even at this moment of night the fury of the attack was not
relaxed. All through the day reports, exasperating in their brevity, had
been streaming into Paris, and rumour, as of old, circled swift-winged
above the city, making good or ill the deficiencies of the telegrams.
One fact, however, had leaped to light, unassailably true. The
Clayfords, stationed on the north of the line at Thiepval, had redeemed
their name and added a new lustre to their erstwhile shining record. The
devotion of the officers, the discipline of the men, had borne their
fruits. At a most critical moment the Clayfords had been forced to
change front against a flank attack, under a galling fire and in the
very press of battle, and the long extended line had swung to its new
position with the steadiness of veterans, and, having reached it, had
stood fast. Hillyard rejoiced with a sincerity as deep as if he himself
held his commission in that regiment. But the losses had been terrible;
and Martin Hillyard was troubled to the roots of his heart by doubts
whether Harry Luttrell were at this moment knowing the deep contentment
that the fixed aim of his boyhood and youth had been fulfilled; or