“Then why won’t you let me join the army, dad?” demanded Martin bluntly.
Colonel Grant spread his hands with the weary gesture of a man who would willingly shirk a vital decision.
“In peace the army is a poor career,” he said. “The law and politics offer you a wider field. But not you only—every young man in the country should be trained to arms. As matters stand, we have neither the men nor the rifles. Our artillery, excellent of its type, is about sufficient for an army corps, and we have a fortnight’s supply of ammunition. I am not an alarmist. We have enough regiments to repel a raid, supposing the enemy’s transports dodged the fleet; but Heaven help us if we dream of sending an expeditionary force to France or Egypt, or any single one of a score of vulnerable points outside the British Isles!”
“Beckett-Smythe retained one of those German chauffeurs in his service for a whole year,” said the vicar, on whom a new light had dawned with the discovery of the telltale map.
“Are there many of the brood in the district now?” inquired the colonel.
“I fancy not.”
“There is no need, they have done their work,” said Elsie. “Last winter I met a young officer in Dresden, and he told me he had taken a walking tour through this part of Yorkshire during the summer. He knew Elmsdale quite well. He remembered the vicarage, The Elms, and the White House. Yet he said he was here only a day!”
“Fritz Bauer’s maps are the best of guides,” commented Colonel Grant bitterly.
The vicar was literally awe-stricken. He stooped over the map.
“Is this sort of thing going on all over the country?” he gasped.