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of detail concerning mysterious matters of material and equipment in the mass.
    One of the inevitable consequences of a large and widely dispersed army was that equipment was often in places where it should not be and urgently wanted where it should be. The greater part of the discrepancies were accidental; but some were deliberate and a thoughtful War Office had decided that Rollison was just the man to handle the cases of pilfering and/or major thefts within the various commands.
    At five o’clock he had some tea in the office and dictated letters while drinking it. At half-past six he had five minutes to spare and wished that he had been back at the office at two o’clock promptly; as a consequence of the delay he would be lucky to get away before half-past ten and the ‘staff’ was still silently reproachful. Both girls were in their small ante room and two typewriters were going at full speed when the door opened and a tall, very fat man entered and closed the door with a bang. His uniform rode uneasily about his embonpoint and his trousers were too tight and too short.
    Rollison affected to start.
    â€˜That’s right, make me more jumpy than I am,’ he protested. ‘In a search for a few odd million rounds of ammunition which should be in Berkshire but aren’t, some noises off are helpful. Bimble, may I resign?’
    Lt Colonel d’Arcy Bimbleton uttered a deep, rolling chuckle and followed with an unequivocal ‘no’.
    â€˜Thanks,’ said Rollison sardonically. ‘In that case, don’t come in and gloat because you’re just going home and I shall be in this benighted sarcophagus for the next four hours.’
    Bimbleton sat on the corner of Rollison’s desk, his smile disappearing.
    â€˜I’ve often wondered just what is a sarcophagus,’ he said earnestly. ‘You don’t happen to know, do you?’
    â€˜It’s a coffin,’ declared Rollison ghoulishly. ‘Made of a stone that eats your flesh away as you lay in it. Don’t stay here too long, Bimble, or you’ll have to be refitted and refurnished.’
    â€˜Is it, by Jove!’ exclaimed Bimbleton, sticking to the point. ‘Interesting ideas some people have. Seriously, will you be late tonight? I thought you might like some snooker.’
    â€˜I shall be very late,’ said Rollison firmly.
    â€˜It’s partly your own fault,’ Bimbleton told him. ‘I know you weren’t back from lunch until after three o’clock. I was here about three. Nothing that mattered, your girl fixed me up. Useful little girl, by the way, she—’
    â€˜Has no time for affairs of heart,’ declared Rollison. ‘She’s already engaged to a handsome young Flight Lieutenant.’ He leaned back in his chair and put his head on one side before he added thoughtfully: ‘What chance do you think I have of getting a week’s leave?’
    Bimbleton started, aghast, considered for a while, then very slowly and deliberately declared that Rollison would probably get it if he asked for it; only a lunatic would ask at the present juncture and lunatics were not in demand. Bimbleton continued in that strain until a typist brought in letters for Rollison’s signature. When she had gone he removed his bulk from the desk and said offhandedly: ‘As a matter of fact, Rolly, I looked in to ask you why you were at the Yard this morning. Saw you go in. Any connection between that and you wanting to leave? No? I’m not curious,’ added Bimbleton hurriedly, seeing the gleam in Rollison’s eyes. ‘I just wondered, that’s all. Cheerio, old man, I won’t delay you. So long!’ He raised a hand, and inserted himself into the narrow aperture to which he opened the door and then peered smilingly back. ‘You know where to come if you want any help.’
    â€˜I wonder how many others saw me go there?’ murmured Rollison as the door