He had a very scared face when I pointed this out.

‘Great God!’ he croaked—­for he had a fearsome cold—­’we’re either about Calais or near Paris or miles the wrong side of the Boche line.  What the devil are we to do?’

And then to put the lid on it his engine went wrong.  It was the same performance as on the Yorkshire moors, and seemed to be a speciality of the Shark-Gladas type.  But this time the end came quick.  We dived steeply, and I could see by Archie’s grip on the stick that he was going to have his work cut out to save our necks.  Save them he did, but not by much for we jolted down on the edge of a ploughed field with a series of bumps that shook the teeth in my head.  It was the same dense, dripping fog, and we crawled out of the old bus and bolted for cover like two ferreted rabbits.

Our refuge was the lee of a small copse.

‘It’s my opinion,’ said Archie solemnly, ’that we’re somewhere about La Cateau.  Tim Wilbraham got left there in the Retreat, and it took him nine months to make the Dutch frontier.  It’s a giddy prospect, sir.’

I sallied out to reconnoitre.  At the other side of the wood was a highway, and the fog so blanketed sound that I could not hear a man on it till I saw his face.  The first one I saw made me lie flat in the covert . . .  For he was a German soldier, field-grey, forage cap, red band and all, and he had a pick on his shoulder.

A second’s reflection showed me that this was not final proof.  He might be one of our prisoners.  But it was no place to take chances.  I went back to Archie, and the pair of us crossed the ploughed field and struck the road farther on.  There we saw a farmer’s cart with a woman and child in it.  They looked French, but melancholy, just what you would expect from the inhabitants of a countryside in enemy occupation.

Then we came to the park wall of a great house, and saw dimly the outlines of a cottage.  Here sooner or later we would get proof of our whereabouts, so we lay and shivered among the poplars of the roadside.  No one seemed abroad that afternoon.  For a quarter of an hour it was as quiet as the grave.  Then came a sound of whistling, and muffled steps.

‘That’s an Englishman,’ said Archie joyfully.  ’No Boche could make such a beastly noise.’

He was right.  The form of an Army Service Corps private emerged from the mist, his cap on the back of his head, his hands in his pockets, and his walk the walk of a free man.  I never saw a welcomer sight than that jam-merchant.

We stood up and greeted him.  ‘What’s this place?’ I shouted.

He raised a grubby hand to his forelock. ‘’Ockott Saint Anny, sir,’ he said.  ‘Beg pardon, sir, but you ain’t whurt, sir?’

Ten minutes later I was having tea in the mess of an M.T. workshop while Archie had gone to the nearest Signals to telephone for a car and give instructions about his precious bus.  It was almost dark, but I gulped my tea and hastened out into the thick dusk.  For I wanted to have a look at the Chateau.