Presently the other glanced at his watch.  “Well,” he said, “I’ve got to go over to H.Q., and you had better be getting to your quarters.  Where did I place Captain Graham, Martin?”

The orderly at the desk leaned sideways and glanced at a paper pinned on the desk.  “No. 5 Rest Camp, sir,” he said.

“Ah, yes, I remember now.  You can get a tram at the bottom of the street that will take you nearly all the way.  It’s a pretty place, on the edge of the country.  You’ll find about one thousand men in camp, and the O.C.’s name is—­what is it, Martin?”

“Captain Harold, sir.”

“Harold, that’s it.  A decent chap.  The men are constantly coming and going, but there’s a good deal to do.”

“Is there a chapel in the camp?” asked Peter.

“Oh, no, I don’t think so.  You’ll use the canteen.  There’s a quiet room there you can borrow for celebrations.  There’s a P.O.W. camp next door one way and a South African Native Labour Corps lot the other.  But they have their own chaplains.  We’ll let you down easy at first, but you might see if you can fix up a service or so for the men in the forest.  There’s a Labour Company out there cutting wood.  Maybe you’ll be able to get a lift out in a car, but get your O.C. to indent for a bicycle if there isn’t one.  Drop in and see me some day and tell me how you are getting on, I’ll find you some more work later on.”

Peter got up.  The other held out his hand, which Peter took, and then, remembering O.T.C. days at Oxford, firmly and, unblushingly saluted.  The Colonel made a little motion.  “Good-bye,” he said, and Peter found himself outside the door.

“No. 5 Rest.  Camp;” said Jenks a moment later:  “you’re in luck, padre.  It’s a topping camp, and the skipper is an awfully good sort.  Beast of a long way out, though.  You’ll have to have a taxi now.”

“The A.C.G. said a tram would do,” said Peter.

“Then he talked through his blooming hat,” replied the other.  “He’s probably never been there in his little life.  It’s two miles beyond the tram terminus if it’s a yard.  My place is just across the river, and there’s a ferry that pretty well drops you there.  Tell you what I’ll do.  I’ll see you down and then skip over.”

“What about your stuff, though?” queried Peter.

“Oh? bless you, I can get a lorry to collect that.  That’s one use in being A.S.C., at any rate.”

“It’s jolly decent of you,” said Peter.

“Not a bit, old dear,” returned the other.  “You’re the right sort, padre, and I’m at a loose end just now.  Besides, I’d like to see old Harold.  He’s one of the best.  Come on.”

They found a taxi this time, near the Gare du Vert, and ran quickly out, first over cobbles, then down a wide avenue with a macadamised surface which paralleled the river, downstream.

“Main road to Havre,” volunteered Jenks.  “I’ve been through once or twice with our stuff.  It’s a jolly pretty run, and you can lunch in Candebec with a bit of luck, which is one of the beauty-spots of the Seine, you know.”