t want that tow beard any more after to-day."

That night Desmond slept well and did not awake until the
sunshine was streaming in between the Venetian blinds in his
bedroom. He felt keen and vigorous, and he had an odd feeling
that something was going to happen to him that day.

It was a delicious morning, the air as balmy as spring. As he
brushed his hair in front of the window, Desmond saw the peewits
running about in the sunshine on the fields by the road. He made
an excellent breakfast and then, lighting a pipe, opened the
Times which lay folded by his plate.

He turned first, as was his daily habit, to the casualty list.
There it was! Under the names of the "Killed in Action," he read:
"Okewood, Major D. J. P.," followed by the name of his regiment.
It gave him an odd little shock, though he had looked for the
announcement every day; but the feeling of surprise was quickly
followed by one of relief. That brief line in the casualty list
meant the severing of all the old ties until he had hunted down
his quarry.

Now he was ready to start.

He spent the morning in the garden. Here, for the first time, he
met Mr. Hill, the odd man, who, on seeing him, became intensely
busy picking up handfuls of leaves and conveying them to a fire
which was smouldering in a corner. Desmond essayed to enter into
conversation with him but the man was so impenetrably deaf that
Desmond, tiring of bawling, "It's a fine day!" in Mr. Hill's ear,
left him and strolled over to the shed where the motor-cycle was
stored. Here he amused himself for more than an hour in taking
the machine to pieces and putting it together again. He satisfied
himself that the bike was in working order and filled up the
tank. He had an idea that this means of conveyance might come in
useful.

The day was so mild that he lunched by the open window with the
sunshine casting rainbows on the tablecloth through the
wine-glasses. He was just finishing his coffee when the
housekeeper came in and told him he was wanted on the telephone.

Desmond sprang from his chair with alacrity. His marching orders
at last! he thought, as he hurried across the hall to the
library.

"Hullo!" he cried as he picked up the receiver.

"Is that Mr. Bellward?" answered a nasal voice.

"Bellward speaking!" said Desmond, wondering who had called him
up. The voice was a man's but it was not the abrupt clear tones
of the Chief nor yet Mr. Matthews' careful accents.

"Madame Le Bon