“Hullo!” I said, cheerily. “You here again?”

Then I saw that I was face to face with Sir Henry Rawlinson. He must have been surprised, but dug me in the ribs in a genial way, and said, “Hullo, young feller!”

He made no further attempt to “pinch” our quarters, but my familiar method of address could not have produced that result.

His headquarters at Querrieux were in another old château on the Amiens⁠–⁠Albert road, surrounded by pleasant fields through which a stream wound its way. Everywhere the signboards were red, and a military policeman, authorized to secure obedience to the rules thereon, slowed down every motorcar on its way through the village, as though Sir Henry Rawlinson lay sick of a fever, so anxious were his gestures and his expression of “Hush! do be careful!”