But Peter was in far too serious a mood for back-chat. Outside, Jelks waited with the horses. He took the paper; buttoned it carefully into his tunic-pocket; mounted; rode off across the fields to the main road. All the way to Bailleul—they made the eight miles of pavé within the hour—he conned over his arguments. “Urgent Private Affairs!” Well, this was urgent enough. . . .
Coolsdon the Staff Captain, busy with papers in a handsomely furnished room, seemed doubtful. “Let me talk to him,” said Peter; and was ushered into a plush-sofaed parlour where General Blacklock sat smoking a cigar.
“Leave!” sputtered Blacklock. “What for?”
“Urgent private affairs, sir. My partner died the day before yesterday.”
“Hm,” said the General. “Lot of money at stake?”
“About thirty thousand, sir.”
The Brigadier signed the application.
“Stay to dinner, won’t you?” he invited.
“No, thanks, sir. I want to take this to Division myself.”
At Divisional Headquarters, a vast house on the Rue d’Armentières, Peter, running up an imposing stair-case, met the very man he sought—a tall, fiery-eyed General with upturned moustaches and an eye-glass.