small hall, from which there was no egress save through yet another
door, through which he passed and stepped into a large but singularly
bare-looking apartment. Three great safes were ranged along one side
of the wall, piles of newspapers and maps were strewn all over a long
table, and a huge Ordnance map of the French and Belgian Frontiers
stood upon an easel. The only occupant of the apartment was a man who
was sitting before a typewriter in front of the window. He turned his
head and rose at Thomson's entrance, a rather short, keen-looking
young man, his face slightly pitted with smallpox, his mouth hard and
firm, his eyes deep-set and bright.

"Anything happened, Ambrose?"

"A dispatch, sir," was the brief reply.

"From the War Office?"

"No, sir, it came direct."

Thomson drew the thin sheet of paper from its envelope and swept a
space for himself at the corner of the table. Then he unlocked one of
the safes and drew out from an inner drawer a parchment book bound in
brown vellum. He spread out the dispatch and read it carefully. It
had been handed in at a town near the Belgian frontier about eight
hours before:--

Fifty thousand camp bedsteads are urgently required for neighbourhood
of La Guir. Please do your best for us, the matter is urgent. Double
mattress if possible. London.