"Come in," said a voice.

He opened the door and entered. At a desk before him sat a rather elderly
man, clean-shaven, who eyed him keenly. On his left, with his back to
him, was a man in uniform pattering away busily on a typewriter, and, for
the rest, the room contained a few chairs, a coloured print of the Light
of the World over the fireplace, and a torn map. Peter again hesitated.
He wondered what was the rank of the officer in the chair, and if he
ought to salute. While he hesitated, the other said: "Good-morning. What
can I do for you?"

Peter, horribly nervous, made a half-effort at saluting, and stepped
forward. "My name's Graham, sir," he said. "I've just come over, and was
told in the C.G.'s office in London to report to Colonel Chichester,
A.C.G., at Rouen."

The other put him at his ease at once. He rose and held a hand out over
the littered desk. "How do you do, Mr. Graham?" he said. "We were
expecting you. I am the A.C.G. here, and we've plenty for you to do.
Take a seat, won't you? I believe I once heard you preach at my brother's
place down in Suffolk. You were at St. Thomas's, weren't you, down by the
river?"

Peter warmed to the welcome. It was strangely familiar, after the past
twenty-four hours, to hear himself called "Mr." and, despite the uniforms
and the surroundings, he felt he might be in the presence of a vicar in
England. Some of his old confidence began to return. He replied freely
to the questions.