‘It’s his blind spot all the same,’ I said.

‘His blind spot,’ Blenkiron repeated solemnly, ’and, please God, we’re going to remember that.’

* * * * *

Next morning in miserable sloppy weather Blenkiron carted me about Paris.  We climbed five sets of stairs to a flat away up in Montmartre, where I was talked to by a fat man with spectacles and a slow voice and told various things that deeply concerned me.  Then I went to a room in the Boulevard St Germain, with a little cabinet opening off it, where I was shown papers and maps and some figures on a sheet of paper that made me open my eyes.  We lunched in a modest cafe tucked away behind the Palais Royal, and our companions were two Alsatians who spoke German better than a Boche and had no names—­only numbers.  In the afternoon I went to a low building beside the Invalides and saw many generals, including more than one whose features were familiar in two hemispheres.  I told them everything about myself, and I was examined like a convict, and all particulars about my appearance and manner of speech written down in a book.  That was to prepare the way for me, in case of need, among the vast army of those who work underground and know their chief but do not know each other.

The rain cleared before night, and Blenkiron and I walked back to the hotel through that lemon-coloured dusk that you get in a French winter.  We passed a company of American soldiers, and Blenkiron had to stop and stare.  I could see that he was stiff with pride, though he wouldn’t show it.

‘What d’you think of that bunch?’ he asked.

‘First-rate stuff,’ I said.

‘The men are all right,’ he drawled critically.  ’But some of the officer-boys are a bit puffy.  They want fining down.’

’They’ll get it soon enough, honest fellows.  You don’t keep your weight long in this war.’

‘Say, Dick,’ he said shyly, ’what do you truly think of our Americans?  You’ve seen a lot of them, and I’d value your views.’  His tone was that of a bashful author asking for an opinion on his first book.

’I’ll tell you what I think.  You’re constructing a great middle-class army, and that’s the most formidable fighting machine on earth.  This kind of war doesn’t want the Berserker so much as the quiet fellow with a trained mind and a lot to fight for.  The American ranks are filled with all sorts, from cow-punchers to college boys, but mostly with decent lads that have good prospects in life before them and are fighting because they feel they’re bound to, not because they like it.  It was the same stock that pulled through your Civil War.  We have a middle-class division, too—­Scottish Territorials, mostly clerks and shopmen and engineers and farmers’ sons.  When I first struck them my only crab was that the officers weren’t much better than the men.  It’s still true, but the men are super-excellent, and consequently so are the officers.  That division