“The trouble is we are not informed!” exclaimed Turcas, opening his thin lips even less than usual, but twisting them in a significant manner as he gave his words a rasping emphasis.  The others hastened to follow his lead with equal candor.

“Exactly.  We have no reports of their artillery strength, which we had greatly underestimated,” said the chief of artillery.

“Our maps of their forts could not be less correct if revealed to us for purposes of deceit.  Again and again we have thought that we had them surprised, only to be surprised ourselves.  In short, they know what we are doing and we don’t know what they are doing!” said the tactical expert.

There the chief of the aerostatic division took the defensive.

“They certainly don’t learn our plans with their planes and dirigibles!” he declared energetically.

“Hardly, when we never see them over our lines.”

“The Browns are acting on the defensive in the air as well as on the earth!”

“But our own planes and dirigibles bring little news,” said Turcas.  “I mean, those that return,” he added pungently.

“And few do return.  My men are not wanting in courage!” replied the chief aerostatic officer.  “Immediately we get over the Brown lines the Browns, who keep cruising to and fro, are on us like hawks.  They risk anything to bring us down.  When we descend low we strike the fire of their high-angle guns, which are distributed the length of the frontier.  I believe both their aerial fleet and their high-angle artillery were greatly underestimated.  Finally, I cannot reduce my force too much in scouting or they might rake the offensive.”

“Another case of not being informed!” concluded Turcas, returning grimly to his point.

He looked at Bouchard, and every one began looking at Bouchard.  If the Gray tacticians had been outplayed by their opponents, if their losses for the ground gained exceeded calculations, then it was good to have a scapegoat for their professional mistakes.  Bouchard was Westerling’s choice for chief of intelligence.  His blind loyalty was pleasing to his superior, who, hitherto, had promptly silenced any suggestion of criticism by repeating that the defensive always appeared to the offensive to be better informed than itself.  But this time Westerling let the conversation run on without a word of excuse for his favorite.

Each fresh reproach from the staff, whose opinion was the only god he knew, was a dagger thrust to Bouchard.  At night he had lain awake worrying about the leak; by day he had sought to trace it, only to find every clew leading back to the staff.  Now he was as confused in his shame as a sensitive schoolboy.  Vaguely, in his distress, he heard Westerling asking a question, while he saw all those eyes staring at him.

“What information have we about Engadir?”

“I believe it to be strongly fortified!” stammered Bouchard.