The Kingdom of the Blind | Page 9

her shoulders but gave him a pleasant little nod as he
stepped into the taxi.
"Sober old stick, Thomson," her brother observed, as they started off. "I
didn't like his pulling me up like that but I expect he was right."
"I don't see what business it was of his and I think it was rather horrid
of him," Olive declared. "As though Gerry or I mattered!"
"A chap like Thomson hasn't very much discretion, you see," Ralph
Conyers remarked. "You'll have to wake him up a bit, Gerry, if you
mean to get any fun out of life."
There was just the faintest look of trouble in Geraldine's face. She
remained perfectly loyal, however.
"Some of us take life more seriously than others," she sighed. "Hugh is
one of them. When one remembers all the terrible things he must have
seen, though, it is very hard to find fault with him."
They turned into the Square and paused before Olive's turning.
"You're coming down with me, Ralph, and you too, Geraldine?" she
invited.
Conyers shook his head regretfully.
"I'm due at the Admiralty at four to receive my final instructions," he
said. "I must move along at once."
The smile suddenly faded from his lips. He seemed to be listening to
the calling of the newsboys down the street. I don't know what my
instructions are going to be," he continued, dropping his voice a little,
"but I'm sick of making war the way our chaps are doing it. If ever I'm
lucky enough to get one of those murderous submarines, I can promise
you one thing--there'll be no survivors."

For a moment or two they neither of them spoke. From out of the
windows of the house before which they were standing came the music
of a popular waltz. Olive turned a way with a little shiver.
"You think I'm brutal, dear," Conyers went on, as he patted her hand.
"Remember, I've seen men killed--that's what makes the difference,
Olive. Yes, I am different! We are all different, we who've tackled the
job. Thomson's different. You young man at luncheon,
Geraldine--what's his name?--Granet--he's different. There's something
big and serious grown up inside us, and the brute is looking out. It has
to be. I'll come in later, Olive. Tell the mater I shall be home to dinner,
Geraldine. The governor's waiting down at the Admiralty for me.
Good-bye, girls!"
He waved his hand and strode down towards the corner of the Square.
Both girls watched him for a few moments. His shoulders were as
square as ever but something had gone from the springiness of his gait.
There was nothing left of the sailor's jaunty swagger.
"They are all like that," Geraldine whispered "when they've been face
to face with the real thing. And we are only women, Olive."
CHAPTER IV
Surgeon-Major Thomson had apparently forgotten his appointment to
view camp bedsteads, for, a few minutes after he had left Geraldine and
her brother, his taxicab set him down before a sombre-looking house in
Adelphi Terrace. He passed through the open doorway, up two flights
of stairs, drew a key of somewhat peculiar shape from his pocket and
opened a door in front of him. He found himself in a very small hall,
from which there was no egress save through yet another door, through
which he passed and stepped into a large but singularly bare-looking
apartment. Three great safes were ranged along one side of the wall,
piles of newspapers and maps were strewn all over a long table, and a
huge Ordnance map of the French and Belgian Frontiers stood upon an
easel. The only occupant of the apartment was a man who was sitting
before a typewriter in front of the window. He turned his head and rose

at Thomson's entrance, a rather short, keen-looking young man, his
face slightly pitted with smallpox, his mouth hard and firm, his eyes
deep-set and bright.
"Anything happened, Ambrose?"
"A dispatch, sir," was the brief reply.
"From the War Office?"
"No, sir, it came direct."
Thomson drew the thin sheet of paper from its envelope and swept a
space for himself at the corner of the table. Then he unlocked one of the
safes and drew out from an inner drawer a parchment book bound in
brown vellum. He spread out the dispatch and read it carefully. It had
been handed in at a town near the Belgian frontier about eight hours
before:--
Fifty thousand camp bedsteads are urgently required for neighbourhood
of La Guir. Please do your best for us, the matter is urgent. Double
mattress if possible. London.
For a matter of ten minutes Thomson was busy with his pencil and the
code-book. When he had finished, he studied thoughtfully the message
which he had transcribed:--
Plans for