"Poufs! Nances!" Inevitably those familiar words came to mind. They were words bandied about in barracks-room sessions and raucously received anecdotes. For only a moment he queried his own inexplicable reluctance to use those words and to wonder about the odd visceral discomfort he experienced whenever he heard them. The passing query yielded no conclusions. Presently he was recalling Jeffreys' sly references to mysterious rites. That practice by many guardsmen of slapping a half-crown piece upon a bar with calculated vehemence! This, according to Jeffreys, was a generally acknowledged signal among initiates that the guardsman was willing to give or receive certain personal favors. Tate invariably added to the conversation by observing that French sailors achieved the same ends by tapping the tip of a cigarette against the packet with a studied nonchalance. The sailors. . . the guardsmen . Tate

.. Jeffreys... those others in barracks shared in some freemasonry. Vaguely he knew its origin, and because the awareness made him uncomfortable, he pressed no inquiries and consciously ignored the overtures that would have brought him into it.

By now the bits and pieces of the puzzle seemed to carry greater impact. He was face to face with the fact that all of the chaps in ranks to whom he felt drawn were like that. Odd coincidence! But was it coincidence? He by-passed the thought. In its wake came another insupportable realization. In his confusion he might have considered it a non-sequitur. His flight from the Granbylike those other avoidances-had been prompted not by revulsion but by fear. Here was a staggering inference that called for more than mental rejection. He had turned into the first telephone kiosk and called Annie.

N

OW on his cot in barracks came new tortuous perplexity. In the hours spent with Annie there had been no sense of elation, or even satisfaction, and yet he had found a consummation that wiped out the earlier Only that much had he been granted and this by indirection; Annie's parting had been reluctant and with unprecedented warmth. But what about himself?

self-doubts and n

Dull, listless, still troubled, he had returned to barracks and relief had come only in the knowledge that tomorrow would see him doing his stint at guard duty outside the palace. The prospect was welcome. It would bring respite from the tangled and depressing fragments of that puzzle. They were fragments striving to fall into some pattern, a pattern presenting a needed unity.

Along Bird Cage Walk the guardsmen marched, their bearskin busbys adding inches to already heroic height. For Private Hibben there was pride of regiment. He was proud to be a cog in this mechanism that demanded splitsecond precision. Training, endless repetitious training made thought superfluous. He had wheeled, guided, counter-marched through the complicated manoeuvering with soaring spirits. Yesterday was forgotten!

At last he stood before the sentry box to the left of the palace gates. His line of vision, unwavering, was directed straight . . . straight down the Mall to Admiralty Arch, yet to the observer his gaze held on no detail. His focus must be on infinity... the practiced, firm martial stare must take in all; appear to take in nothing.

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