id="id00200">"That's right," said the Submarine Hunter. "That's the way to work in war-time. If I had my way——"

A jarring shudder ran through the train as the brakes were applied and the speed slackened. The Reserve Man lowered the window and peered out into the darkness. A flurry of snow drifted into the dimly lighted carriage.

"Hallo!" he ejaculated. "We're here. Bless me, how the time goes when one gets yarning."

The Volunteer rose and held out his hand.

"My name is Armitage," he said, and named two exclusive clubs, one in London and the other in New York. "Look me up after the war if you pass that way."

The Submarine Hunter took the proffered hand in his formidable grip.

"Pleased to have met you. Mine's Gedge. I don't own a club, but the Liverpool Shipping Federation generally knows my address. And the girls from Simonstown to Vladivostock will tell you if I've passed that way!"

He threw back his head, displaying the muscular great throat above his collar, and laughed like a mischievous boy.

"Good luck!" he said.

"Good hunting!" replied the Volunteer.

He turned to the Midshipman. "Come along, sonny, shake the sleep out of your eyes and go and collect our little party."

Outside in the snowy darkness the great concourse of men was being mustered: lanterns gleamed on wet oilskins and men's faces. Hoarse voices and the tramp of heavy boots through the slush heralded the passage along the platform of each draft as they were marched to the barrier. A cold wind cut through the cheerless night like a knife.

Armitage paused for a moment to accustom his eyes to the darkness.

"Here we are, Mouldy," said a clear-cut, well-bred voice out of the darkness surrounding a pile of luggage. "Here's our stuff. Get a truck, old thing!"

Armitage turned in the direction of the voice: as he did so a passing lantern flashed on the face of a Lieutenant stooping over some portmanteaux.

"I thought as much," he said. "Thought I recognised the voice." He stepped towards the speaker and rested his hand on his shoulder. "James Thorogood, isn't it?" he said.

The other straightened up and peered through the darkness at the face of the Volunteer Lieutenant. "Yes," he replied, "but it's devilish dark—I can't——"

"I'm Armitage," said the other. Thorogood laughed. "Great Scott!" he exclaimed. "Were you in the train? I didn't see you before——"

"Neither did I," was the reply, "but I heard your voice and recognised it. How is Sir William?"

"Uncle Bill? Oh, he's all right. Hard at work on some comic invention of his, as usual."

The other nodded. "Well, give him my love when you write, and tell him I've struck the type of man he wants for that experiment of his. I'll write to him, though. Now I must go and find my little party of braves—bringing an armed guard back to our base. Good-bye and good luck to you."

They shook hands, and the Volunteer half turned away. An afterthought appeared to strike him, however, and he stopped.

"By the way," he added, "how's Miss Cecily? Well, I hope?"

"She's all right, thanks," was the reply. "I'll tell her I've seen you."

"Will you? Yes, thank you. And will you say I—I am looking forward to seeing her again next time I come South?"

The speaker moved away into the darkness.

At that moment appeared Mouldy Jakes, panting behind a barrow. "Who's that old bird?" he queried.

"Another of 'em," replied Thorogood.

"'Nother of what?"

"Cecily's hopeless attachments. He's a pal of Uncle Bill's, and as rich as Croesus. Amateur deep sea yachtsman before the war. He's awfully gone on Cecily."

"'Counts for him hanging round your neck, I s'pose," commented the student of human nature. "Sort of 'dweller-near-the-rose' business. Heave that suit-case over—unless you can find any more of your cousin's admirers sculling about the country. P'raps they'll load this truck for us and shove it to the boat. Ah, here's Podgie!"

A moment later the King's Messenger joined the group.

"Will you all come and have supper with me at the hotel?" he said.
"It's the last meal you'll get on terra firma for some time to come.
I've got a car waiting outside."

Mouldy Jakes heaved the last of the bags on to the hand-cart and enlisted the services of a superannuated porter drifting past in the darkness. The King's Messenger had slipped his arm inside Thorogood's, and the two moved on towards the barrier.

"Has your wife got a young brother?" asked Mouldy Jakes abruptly as he and the India-rubber Man followed in the wake of the porter and the barrow.

"Yes," replied Standish. "A lad called Joe—cadet at Dartmouth."

"Did you ever ask him to dinner—before you were engaged, I mean?" pursued the inquisitor.

The India-rubber Man laughed.

"Well, not dinner exactly. But I went down to Osborne College once and stood him a blow-out at the tuck-shop."

His companion nodded darkly in the direction of the King's Messenger.

"Shouldn't wonder if Thorogood was feeling like that lad Joe. Useful fellow to travel with, Thorogood."

[1] Submarine.

CHAPTER III

ULTIMA THULE

Across the stormy North Sea came the first faint streak of dawn. It overtook a long line of Destroyers rolling landward with battered bridge-screens and salt-crusted funnels; it met a flotilla of mine-sweeping Sloops, labouring patiently out to their unending task. It lit the frowning cliffs, round which wind-tossed gulls wailed and breakers had thundered the beat of an ocean's pulse throughout the ages.

The Destroyers were not sorry to see the dawn. The night was their task-master: in darkness they worked and in the Shadow of Death. They passed within hailing distance of the Sloops, and on board the reeling Destroyers here and there a figure in streaming oilskins raised his arm and waved a salutation to the squat grey craft setting forth in the comfortless dawn to holystone Death's doorstep.

The Mine-sweepers refrained from any such amenity. Anon the darkness would come again, when no man may sweep for mines. Then would be their turn for grins and the waving of arms. In the meanwhile, they preferred to remain grim and restless as their work.

Presently the Destroyers, obedient to a knotted tangle of flags at the yardarm of their leader, altered course a little; they were making for an opening in the wall of rock, on either side of which gaunt promontories thrust their naked shoulders into the surf. The long black, viperish hulls passed through under the ever-watchful eyes of the shore batteries, and the hooded figures on the Destroyer bridges threw back their duffle cowls and wiped the night's accumulation of dried spray and cinders out of the puckers round their tired eyes.

The Commanding Officer of the leading Destroyer leaned across the bridge-rails and stared round at the ring of barren islands encircling the great expanse of water into which they had passed, the naked, snow-powdered hills in the background: at the greyness and desolation of earth and sky and sea.

"Home again!" he said in an undertone to the Lieutenant beside him. "It ain't much of a place to look at, but I'm never