“Because he came my way just at the end of the War and had rather a curious adventure,” said the Brigadier, stirring his coffee.  “I thought you might be interested.”

“I am,” the General replied.  “What happened?”

The Brigadier cleared his throat.  “We were in front of Tournai at the time, scrapping our way from house to house through Faubourg de Lille, the city’s western suburb.  My Brigade Major stumped into H.Q. one afternoon looking pretty grim.  ‘We’d best move out of here, Sir,’ said he, ‘before we’re wafted.’

“‘What’s the matter now?’ I asked.

“’That unutterable little fool de Blavincourt has walked into Germany with a large scale-map in his hand, showing every H.Q. mess and billet.’  He tapped a despatch from the forward battalion.

“De Blavincourt, it appeared, had been at work all the morning evacuating unfortunate civilians from the cellars.  At noon or thereabouts he sidled along the wall, past a Lewis gun detachment that was holding the street.  The corporal shouted a warning, but de Blavincourt sidled on, saying that he was only going to the first house round the corner to rescue some old women he heard were in it.  And that was the last of him.  Seeing that the Bosch opened fire from the said house seven minutes later his fate was obvious.

“It was also obvious what our fate would be if we continued in those marked billets, so we moved out, bag and baggage, into a sunken road near by and spent the night there in the rain and muck, and were most uncomfortable.  What puzzled us rather was that the Hun did not shell our old billets that night—­that is, nothing out of the ordinary.  ’But that’s only his cunning,’ we consoled ourselves; ’he knows we know he knows, and he’s trying to lure us back.  Ah, no, old friend.’

“So we camped miserably on in that sunken sewer.  He dropped a lucky one through a barn the same afternoon and lobbed a few wides over during the next night, but again nothing out of the ordinary.

“We were more and more puzzled.  Then, just about breakfast-time on the second morning, in walks de Blavincourt himself, green as to the complexion and wounded in the arm, but otherwise intact.  I leapt upon him, snarling, ‘Where’s that map?’

“’I got ‘im, Sir,’ he gulped, ‘safe’ (gulp).

“This was his story.  He had remembered the corporal shouting something, but so intent on his work was he that he hardly noticed the warning until suddenly, to his horror, he perceived a party of Huns creeping out of a passage behind him.  He was cut off!  They had not seen him for the moment, so quick as thought he slipped into the nearest house, turned into a front room—­a sort of parlour place—­and crouched there, wondering what to do.

“He was not left wondering long, for the Bosches followed him into that very house.  There was a small table in one corner covered with a large cloth.  Under this de Blavincourt dived, and not a second too soon, for the Bosches—­seven of them—­followed him into that very room and, setting up their machine gun at the window, commenced to pop off down the street.  Charming state of affairs for little de Blavincourt—­alone and unarmed in a room full of bristling Huns with that fatal map in his possession.