there."

"No such luck now," returned the other. "But it's a jolly place. Jenko's
there. Get him to take you out to Duclair. You can get roast duck at a
pub there that melts in your mouth. And what's that little hotel near the
statue of Joan of Arc, Jenks, where they still have decent wine?"

Peter was not to learn yet awhile, for at that moment the little door
opened and a waiter looked in. "Breakfast, gentlemen?" he asked.

"Oh, no," said Jenks. "Waiter, I always bring some rations with me; I'll
just take a cup of coffee."

The man grinned. "Right-o, sir," he said. "Porridge, gentlemen?"

He disappeared, leaving the door open and, Donovan opening a newspaper,
Graham stared out of window to wait. From the far corners came scraps of
conversation, from which he gathered that Jenks and the Major were going
over the doings of the night before. He caught a word or two, and stared
the harder out of window.

Outside the English country was rushing by. Little villas, with
back-gardens running down to the rail, would give way for a mile or two
to fields, and then start afresh. The fog was thin there, and England
looked extraordinarily homely and pleasant. It was the known; he was
conscious of rushing at fifty miles an hour into the unknown. He turned
over the scrappy conversation of the last few minutes, and found it
savoured of the unknown. It was curious the difference uniform made. He
felt that these men were treating him more like one of themselves than
men in a railway-carriage had ever treated him before; that somehow even