The guard-tent had disappeared.

　　Private Jones' bewildered eye, rolling in a fine frenzy from heaven toearth, and from earth to heaven, in search of the missing edifice,found it at last in a tangled heap upon the ground. It was too dark tosee anything distinctly, but he perceived that the canvas was risingand falling spasmodically like a stage sea, and for a similarreason--because there were human beings imprisoned beneath it.

　　By this time the whole camp was up and doing. Figures in_deshabille_, dashing the last vestiges of sleep away with theirknuckles, trooped on to the scene in twos and threes, full of inquiryand trenchant sarcasm.

　　"What are you men playing at? What's all the row about? Can't youfinish that game of footer some other time, when we aren't trying toget to sleep? What on earth's up?"Then the voice of one having authority.

　　"What's the matter? What are you doing?"It was perfectly obvious what the guard was doing. It was trying toget out from underneath the fallen tent. Private Jones explained thiswith some warmth.

　　"Somebody jumped at me and sat on my head in the ditch. I couldn't getup. And then some blackguard cut the ropes of the guard-tent. Icouldn't see who it was. He cut off directly the tent went down."Private Jones further expressed a wish that he could find the chap.

　　When he did, there would, he hinted, be trouble in the old homestead.

　　The tent was beginning to disgorge its prisoners.

　　"Guard, turn out!" said a facetious voice from the darkness.

　　The camp was divided into two schools of thought. Those who werewatching the guard struggle out thought the episode funny. The guarddid not. It was pathetic to hear them on the subject of theirmysterious assailants. Matters quieted down rapidly after the tent hadbeen set up again. The spectators were driven back to their lines bytheir officers. The guard turned in again to try and restore theirshattered nerves with sleep until their time for sentry-go came round.

　　Private Jones picked up his rifle and resumed his beat. The affair wasat an end as far as that night was concerned.

　　Next morning, as might be expected, nothing else was talked about.

　　Conversation at breakfast was confined to the topic. No halfpennypaper, however many times its circulation might exceed that of anypenny morning paper, ever propounded so fascinating and puzzling abreakfast-table problem. It was the utter impossibility of detectingthe culprits that appealed to the schools. They had swooped down likehawks out of the night, and disappeared like eels into mud, leaving notraces.

　　Jimmy Silver, of course, had no doubts.

　　"It was those Kay's men," he said. "What does it matter aboutevidence? You've only got to look at 'em. That's all the evidence youwant. The only thing that makes it at all puzzling is that they didnothing worse. You'd naturally expect them to slay the sentry, at anyrate."But the rest of the camp, lacking that intimate knowledge of theKayite which he possessed, did not turn the eye of suspicion towardsthe Eckleton lines. The affair remained a mystery. Kennedy, who nevergave up a problem when everybody else did, continued to revolve themystery in his mind.