“We'll go, sir, if you are ready.”
A few minutes' run brought them to the gate of the ruined city. As the car felt its way through the ghostly town, Barry was only vaguely conscious in the darkness of its ghostly skeletonlike ruins. Fifteen minutes brought them to the Menin gate.
“Sounds rather hot out there,” remarked the driver. “Well, Fritzie, I guess we won't join your party this time. We prefer to wait, if you don't mind, really.”
He ran the car into the lee of the ramparts, by the side of the gateway, waited there half an hour or so, until the “Evening Hate” was past; then onward again to the Menin Mill.
They lifted the blanket covering the sandbagged entrance, passed through a dark corridor and came into a cellar, lit by lanterns, swinging from the roof, and by candles everywhere upon ledges or upon improvised candlesticks.
No sooner had they come into the light, than Barry saw across the room his friend, Dr. Gregg, his coat off, and his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows.
“Hello, Dunbar,” said the doctor, coming forward. “I guess I won't shake hands just now. Sit down. Won't you have a cup of coffee? Jim,” turning to an orderly, “give Captain Dunbar a cup of coffee.”
Barry presented Cameron to his friend, and together they sat down and waited. When the doctor was through with his patient, he came and sat down with them.
“We came up to see a young chap named McPherson. I think you sent a note down about him to-day.”
“McPherson,” said the doctor. “I don't remember, but I will see.”