the Staff officer accompanying me, with a hypnotic stare.  He peered at him from under drooping eyelids, flanking a nose without a bridge, and my companion didn’t like it.  “He is admiring you,” I remarked by way of consolation, as indeed he was.  “What do you call it?” said A——­ petulantly to a R.A.M.C. officer who was lunching with us.  The latter looked at the boy with a clinical eye.  “Necrosis—­syphilitic,” he said dispassionately.  “And he’s handing us the cakes!” A——­ exclaimed with horror.  “Fetch me an ounce of civet.”  We declined the cakes, and, having paid our addition, hastily departed to resume our quest of the procureur.

Eventually we found the legend set out above.  It was a placard stuck on the door of a private house.  We entered and found ourselves in a kitchen with a stone floor; japanned tin boxes, calf-bound volumes, and fat registers, all stamped with the arms of Belgium, were grouped on the shelves of the dresser.  A courteous gentleman, well-groomed and debonair, with waxed moustaches, greeted us.  It was the procureur du roi.  With him was another civilian—­the juge d’instruction.  They politely requested us to take a seat and to excuse a judicial preoccupation.  The juge d’instruction was interrogating an inhabitant of Poperinghe.  The procureur explained to me that the prevenu (the accused), who was not present but was within the precincts, was charged with calomnie[27] under Section 444 of the Code Penal.  “But,” I exclaimed in astonishment, “are you still administering justice?” “Pourquoi non?” he asked in mild surprise.  It was true, he admitted, that his office at Ypres had been destroyed by shell-fire, the maison d’arret—­in plain English, the prison—­was open to the four winds of heaven, and warders and gendarmes had been called up to the colours.  But justice must be done and the majesty of the King of the Belgians upheld.  The King’s writ still ran, even though its currency might be limited to the few square miles which were all that remained of Belgian territory in Belgian hands.  All this he explained to me with such gravity that I felt further questions would be futile, if not impertinent.  I therefore held my tongue and determined to follow the proceedings closely, being not a little curious to observe how the judgment would be enforced.

The witness took the oath to say the truth and nothing but the truth ("rien que la verite"), concluding with the solemn invocation, “Ainsi m’aide Dieu.”  The parties had elected to have the proceedings taken in French.

“Your name?” said the judge, as he studied the proces-verbal prepared by the procureur.

“Jules F——.”

“Age?”

“Cinquante-cinq.”

“Profession?”

“Cordonnier.”

“Residence?”

“Rue d’Ypres 32.”