drove on due east, and forty minutes later found ourselves at the
entrance of the lodge of our friend's house. It lay on the very edge of
the Belgian front, and would have been unapproachable had there
been any activity in this section of the line. Fortunately for us, the
Germans were concentrating their energies around Termonde, and
the mitrailleuse standing on the path amongst the trees at the end of
the garden seemed to have gone asleep. We turned the car in the
drive, and, in case things should happen, pointed its nose
homewards. That is always a wise precaution, for turning a car under
fire in a narrow road is one of the most trying experiences imaginable.
The coolest hand may fumble with the gears at such a moment, and it
is surprising how difficult it is to work them neatly when every second
may be a matter of life or death, when a stopped engine may settle
the fate of everyone in the car. It is foolish to take unnecessary risks,
and we left the car pointing the right way, with its engine running,
ready to start on the instant, while we went to have a look at the
house.

It was a large country-house standing in well-timbered grounds,
evidently the home of a man of wealth and taste. The front-door stood
wide open, as if inviting us to enter, and as we passed into the large
hall I could not help glancing at our friend's face to see what he was
thinking as the obvious destruction met us on the very threshold. So
thorough was it that it was impossible to believe that it had not been
carried out under definite orders. Chairs, sofas, settees lay scattered
about in every conceivable attitude, and in every case as far as I can
recollect minus legs and backs. In a small room at the end of the hall
a table had been overturned, and on the floor and around lay broken
glass, crockery, knives and forks, mixed up in utter confusion, while
the wall was freely splashed with ink. One fact was very striking and