Julian, who had been leaning over towards the cigarette bog, glanced around at his friend.

There was a frown on Furley's forehead.

He withdrew his pipe from between his teeth.
"What did you say you made of it ?" he demanded.
"`Thirty-eight steeple on barn.'" "Thirty-eight! That's queer!" "Why is it queer ?" There was a moment's silence.

Furley glanced at the little clock upon the mantelpiece.

It was five and twenty minutes past nine.
"I don't know whether you have ever heard, Julian," he said, "that our enemies on the other side of the North Sea are supposed to have divided the whole of the eastern coast of Great Britain into small, rectangular districts, each about a couple of miles square.