The corporal replied: "A prisoner, sir--sez 'e's French--come across the
open to-night with important information--so 'e sez."

The spot-light picked out the prisoner's face. The officer addressed him
directly.

"What is your name, my man?"

"That," said the prisoner, "is something which--like my intelligence--I
should prefer to communicate privately."

With a startled gesture the officer took a step forward and peered intently
into that mud-smeared countenance.

"I seem to know your voice," he said in a speculative tone.

"You should," the prisoner returned.

"Gentlemen," said the officer to his companions, "you may continue your
rounds. Corporal, follow me with your prisoner."

He swung round and slopped off heavily through the mud of the open field.

Behind them the sound of firing in the forward trenches swelled to an
uproar augmented by the shrewish chattering of machine-guns. Then a battery
hidden somewhere in the blackness in front of them came into action,
barking viciously. Shells whined hungrily overhead. The prisoner glanced
back: the maimed poplars stood out stark against a sky washed with wave
after wave of infernal light....