He turned his head and rose at Thomson's entrance, a rather short, keen-looking young man, his face slightly pitted with smallpox, his mouth hard and firm, his eyes deep-set and bright.
"Anything happened, Ambrose ?" "A dispatch, sir," was the brief reply.
"From the War Office ?" "No, sir, it came direct." Thomson drew the thin sheet of paper from its envelope and swept a space for himself at the corner of the table.

Then he unlocked one of the safes and drew out from an inner drawer a parchment book bound in brown vellum.

He spread out the dispatch and read it carefully.

It had been handed in at a town near the Belgian frontier about eight hours before:-- Fifty thousand camp bedsteads are urgently required for neighbourhood of La Guir.

Please do your best for us, the matter is urgent.