“Well, sir”—an undercurrent of emotion rippled the controlled voice—“I don’t claim to know much; but I’ve spent six of the last twelve months in their country.”
“You’ve what!” A simultaneous gasp ran round the room. Francis repeated his preposterous assertion: “I was staying at the Bristol in Berlin just after they beat the Russians at Tannenberg. I saw the crowds round the huge war-maps in Unter den Linden. I’ve seen the Zeppelin sheds at Tondern. And I’ve seen the camps where they keep our prisoners.” His voice dominated the room: nobody else spoke, wanted to speak. “I don’t pretend to be a fighting soldier. It isn’t my job. But when I hear people talk about the Hun as a clean fighter; when I think of the things I’ve seen him do. . . .” He bit off the words, fell silent.
“Then you were in Germany when war broke out,” said the Weasel, after a pause.
“No, sir. I got in afterwards. . . .”
Peter looked at his cousin; remembered old days, remembered the tango-dancing, night-club-haunting Francis of Curzon Street; marvelled that this should be the same man. For the tale Francis told that night—in half sentences, not boastingly but as a soldier discloses his job—carried conviction. Of himself, of how he had been hidden for three weeks in Amsterdam, coached in his part, smuggled not once but many times and in varied disguises across the frontier—Francis told nothing. He contented himself with bare statements. At Essen, in January, he had worked for a month. . . .
“What on?” interrupted Stark, still doubtful if this young Staff officer were not joking.
“A new patent carriage for the 77 field-gun, sir.”
“What part of it?”
“Principally the cradle for the buffer. ‘Rück-rohr-lafetten-auflauf,’ they call it.”
Stark, technical expert, asked no more doubting questions that evening: and Francis went on talking for nearly half-an-hour.