When Bouchard, the chief of intelligence, who fought the battle of wits and spies against Lanstron, came, two hours before Westerling was due, the last of the staff except Westerling and his personal aide had arrived Bouchard, with his iron-gray hair, bushy eyebrows, strong, aquiline nose, and hawk-like eyes, his mouth hidden by a bristly mustache, was lean and saturnine, and he was loyal.  No jealous thought entered his mind at having to serve a man younger than himself.  He did not serve a personality; he served a chief of staff and a profession.  The score of words which escaped him as he looked over the arrangements were all of directing criticism and bitten off sharply, as if he regretted that he had to waste breath in communicating even a thought.

“I tell nothing, but you tell me everything!” said Bouchard’s hawk eyes.  He was old-fashioned; he looked his part, which was one of the many points of difference between him and Lanstron as a chief of intelligence.

After he had gone through the house he went for a flyspecking tour of the grounds, where he came upon a private of the Grays on crutches.  With rest and good food the tiny hole in Hugo’s leg from the merciful small-calibre bullet had healed rapidly.  Confinement was irksome on a sunny day.  He had grown strong enough in spirit to face his fate, whatever it might be, and in the absence of the watchful coachman he had risked the delight of a convalescent’s adventure in the open, clad in his uniform, the only clothes he had.  Bouchard saw instantly that this private did not wear the insignia of staff service.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Getting well of a wound,” answered Hugo, looking frankly into the hawk eyes.

“Evidently!” said Bouchard, who was always irritated when told what he could see for himself.  “Why aren’t you at a hospital?”

“I was not wanted there!” said Hugo.

“What! what!” But Bouchard had wasted two words.  “Your name and regiment?” he asked.

“Hugo Mallin, of the 128th,” replied Hugo.

“Uh-h!” Bouchard’s pigeonhole memory had retained the name.  “Charge—­mutiny under fire; anarchism!” he went on, chopping out the words as if they were chips from a piece of granite.  “Well, you have not escaped trial by hiding.”

“I did not flatter myself that with one leg against a whole army I had much chance, sir!” Hugo replied respectfully.

“Uh-h!” The hawk eyes flashed their disapproval of such controversial freedom of language from a private.  Had he had his way he would have hanged Hugo to the nearest tree; for Bouchard had truly a mediaeval soul.

But Hugo’s case was so extraordinary that it had reached Westerling’s ears, and Bouchard knew that Westerling wished to see Hugo when he was apprehended.  It was not for Bouchard to consider this desire of a chief of staff to deal with the case of a private in person as singular.  No request of the chief of staff was singular to him.  It became a matter of natural law.  He called to one of the staff guards who was pacing back and forth near by.