He told the porter to place his bag upon the upper berth, and, still grumbling, gave him some money.  He turned sharply on the attendant, who was smiling in the doorway.

“Ah, it seems to you funny that an invalid should be irritable, eh?” he cried.  “I suppose it must be—­damnably funny.”

“Monsieur, there are very many men who would like to-night to be invalids with a sleeping compartment to themselves,” returned the attendant severely.

“Well, I don’t want to talk about it any more,” said Hillyard roughly, and he shouldered his way out again on to the platform.

The attendant followed him.  The smile upon his face was sleeker than ever.  He was very amused and contented with his passenger in the compartment numbers 11 and 12.  He took the cap off his head and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

“Ouf!  It is hot to-night.”  He looked after Hillyard with a chuckle, and remarked to the controller, “This is a customer who does not like his little comforts to be disarranged!”

The controller nodded contemptuously.

“They must travel—­the English!  The tourism—­that is sacred, even if all Europe burns.”

Hillyard strolled towards the stairs, and as he drew near to them his eyes brightened.  A man about six years older than himself, tall, broad-shouldered, slim of waist, with a short, fair moustache, was descending towards him.

* * * * *

The war has killed many foolish legends, but none more foolish than the legend of the typical Frenchman, conceived as a short, rotund, explosive person, with a square, brown beard of curly baby-hair and a shiny silk hat with a flat brim.  There have been too many young athletes of clean build on view whose nationality, language and the uniforms of powder-blue and khaki could alone decide.  The more curious might, perhaps, if the youth were in mufti, cast a downward glance at the boots; but even boots were ceasing to be the sure tell-tale they once used to be.  This man descending the stairs with a limp was the Commandant Marnier, of the 193rd Regiment, wounded in 1915, and now attached to the General Staff.  He was in plain clothes; he was looking for Martin Hillyard, and no stranger but would have set him and the man for whom he was looking in the same category of races.

The Commandant Marnier saw Martin Hillyard clearly enough long before he reached the foot of the stairs.  But nevertheless he greeted him with an appearance of surprise.

“But what luck!” he said aloud.  “You leave by this train?”

“Yes.  It may be that I shall find health.”

“Yes, yes.  So your friends will pray,” returned the Commandant, falling into Hillyard’s pace.

“The telegram we sent for you——­” Marnier began.

“Yes!”

“There is an answer already.  Your friend is unhurt.  I have brought you a copy.  I thought that perhaps I might catch you before your train started.”