Crouching on that wall, I felt a very ugly tremor run down my spine.  I had a glimpse of what the Canadian’s ghost might have been.  That hag, hooded like some venomous snake, was too much for my stomach.  I dropped off the wall and ran—­yes, ran till I reached the highroad and saw the cheery headlights of a transport wagon, and heard the honest speech of the British soldier.  That restored me to my senses, and made me feel every kind of a fool.

As I drove back to the line with Archie, I was black ashamed of my funk.  I told myself that I had seen only an old countrywoman going to feed her hens.  I convinced my reason, but I did not convince the whole of me.  An insensate dread of the place hung around me, and I could only retrieve my self-respect by resolving to return and explore every nook of it.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Adventure of the Picardy Chateau

I looked up Eaucourt Sainte-Anne on the map, and the more I studied its position the less I liked it.  It was the knot from which sprang all the main routes to our Picardy front.  If the Boche ever broke us, it was the place for which old Hindenburg would make.  At all hours troops and transport trains were moving through that insignificant hamlet.  Eminent generals and their staffs passed daily within sight of the Chateau.  It was a convenient halting-place for battalions coming back to rest.  Supposing, I argued, our enemies wanted a key-spot for some assault upon the morale or the discipline or health of the British Army, they couldn’t find a better than Eaucourt Sainte-Anne.  It was the ideal centre of espionage.  But when I guardedly sounded my friends of the Intelligence they didn’t seem to be worrying about it.

From them I got a chit to the local French authorities, and, as soon as we came out of the line, towards the end of December, I made straight for the country town of Douvecourt.  By a bit of luck our divisional quarters were almost next door.  I interviewed a tremendous swell in a black uniform and black kid gloves, who received me affably and put his archives and registers at my disposal.  By this time I talked French fairly well, having a natural turn for languages, but half the rapid speech of the sous-prifet was lost on me.  By and by he left me with the papers and a clerk, and I proceeded to grub up the history of the Chateau.

It had belonged since long before Agincourt to the noble house of the D’Eaucourts, now represented by an ancient Marquise who dwelt at Biarritz.  She had never lived in the place, which a dozen years before had been falling to ruins, when a rich American leased it and partially restored it.  He had soon got sick of it—­his daughter had married a blackguard French cavalry officer with whom he quarrelled, said the clerk—­and since then there had been several tenants.  I wondered why a house so unattractive should have let so readily, but the clerk explained that the cause was the partridge-shooting.  It was about the best in France, and in 1912 had shown the record bag.