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Spike was glad to step to the solid foundation of Ostend Quay. He had half an hour to wait in the Place de Gare before there hove in sight the little tram that runs to the Dutch frontier, and he was glad to get to the shelter of a first-class compartment. Rain was now falling heavily, and a chill wind swept bleakly through the square. A frequent visitor to Belgium, he knew the route by heart, that dreary way across the dunes, the only points of interest the deserted gun emplacements which the German left in his retreat. Le Coq was a howling wilderness, but Wenduyne had the appearance of a town. A summer resort, it was deserted now save for a shivering policeman, who stood in the tramway shelter and eyed him curiously as he struggled up the steep incline that led to the digue in the face of a strong north-westerly wind.

The digue was a desolation. The faces of the pretty villas were boarded up, and billows of sand lay in patches on the neglected promenade. The tide was in, and a tawny sea was lashing furiously at the very foot of the embankment as he walked swiftly along, his coat buttoned to his chin. Presently he came to 94.