"I say, I'm in no end of a hat, chauffeur. Can you give me a hand?" he cried.
The man stared at him with a white face, apparently dazed, and replied in a shaky voice: "Can you give me a hand, sir? Look at this!" and unshipping one of his lamps he turned the light on to the car.
Sitting rigidly erect was the body of a staff officer, decapitated.
"Great heavens!" exclaimed Dennis, bending over with eyes of horror as he recognised the officer who less than half an hour before had shown him his own route at Divisional Headquarters. "It's Captain Thompson!"
"It was Captain Thompson, and one of the nicest gentlemen I've ever driven," said the man. "I don't know what to do. He told me he was taking a message to the French general on the other side of Hardecourt, and that it was of the very greatest importance. We were doing sixty miles an hour, even on this road, when that shell copped us."
There were sobs in the man's voice as he pointed to the leather dispatch-case still clutched tightly in the dead hand.
"Look here," said Dennis. "My machine's smashed up. How long would it take you to reach the French lines?"
"A quarter of an hour—twenty minutes at the outside. But what's the good of that, sir? I can't speak a word of their blooming language."
"I can," said Dennis, gently disengaging the wallet. "I'll carry the dispatch, and I'll drive if you like, if your nerve's gone."
"My nerve's all right, sir. Haven't any left after eighteen months of this job," and as Dennis climbed into the front seat, the chauffeur turned the handle over and the engine began to whir.