Some busy little scene it is, too, with all them lathes and things goin',
belts whirrin' overhead, and workmen in undershirts about as thick as
they could be placed.

I towed Cecil in and out of rooms, up and down stairs, until he must have
been dizzy, and ends by leadin' him into the yard.

"Storage sheds," says I, pointin' to the neat rows of shell-cases piled
from the ground to the roof. "And a dozen motor-trucks haulin' 'em away
all the time."

The Lieutenant he inspects some of 'em, lookin' wise; and then he walks
to the back, where there's a high board fence with barbed wire on top.
"What's over there?" says he.

"Blamed if I know," says I.

"It's rather important," says he. "Let's have a look."

I didn't get the connection, but I helped him shove a packin'-case up
against the fence, so he could climb up. For a minute or so he stares,
then he ducks down and beckons to me.

"I say," he whispers. "Come up here. Don't show your head. There!
What do you make of that?"

So I'm prepared for something tragic and thrillin'. But all I can see is
an old slate-roofed house, one of these weather-beaten, dormer-windowed
relics of the time when that part of town was still in the suburbs.