At one minute to two, a limousine, mud-spattered from roof to axle, tore down the road; pulled up slithering before the gateway. From the car, sprang a tall aquiline eye-glassed man; who said, “Hello, Stark. Sorry to be late. Look here”; drew a very dirty map from his pocket; and swept one finger over a blue semi-circle of it. Stark, drawing an identical map from his pocket, copied the semi-circle; asked: “Any particular instructions?”
“No.” The aquiline one was obviously working under extreme pressure. “You’ll get those from Trench later. This isn’t as much fun as pig-sticking, is it?” He leapt back into his car; whirled off down the road.
Two minutes afterwards Peter—note-book on knee—was writing from orders Stark’s dictation. . . .
§ 5
The remainder of the afternoon resolved itself into a constant dispatching of orderlies, a constant running in and out to the jingling clicking telephone station.
At half-past four, the aquiline one returned. Peter, instructed to report communication completed, found him closeted with a big vaguely seen man in the semi-dusk of yet another dug-out. At five o’clock, these two removed themselves.
Said the Weasel: “What sort of a dug-out was the one in which you found him?”
Said Peter: “Pretty good, sir.”
Ordered the Weasel: “Then we’d better occupy it.”