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"Mr. Standfast" by John Buchan is a novel published in 1919. Brigadier-General Richard Hannay is pulled from the Western Front for a dangerous secret mission: hunting a German spy network operating in Britain. Disguised as a pacifist, he must work undercover to track enemy agents across the country and into the Swiss Alps. With coded messages hidden in "Pilgrim's Progress" and allies in unexpected places, Hannay faces his most complex assignment yet—one that could determine the fate of Europe. (This is an automatically generated summary.)

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The Wicket-Gate

I spent one-third of my journey looking out of the window of a
first-class carriage, the next in a local motor-car following the
course of a trout stream in a shallow valley, and the last tramping
over a ridge of downland through great beech-woods to my quarters for
the night. In the first part I was in an infamous temper; in the second
I was worried and mystified; but the cool twilight of the third stage
calmed and heartened me, and I reached the gates of Fosse Manor with a
mighty appetite and a quiet mind.

As we slipped up the Thames valley on the smooth Great Western line I
had reflected ruefully on the thorns in the path of duty. For more than
a year I had never been out of khaki, except the months I spent in
hospital. They gave me my battalion before the Somme, and I came out of
that weary battle after the first big September fighting with a crack
in my head and a D.S.O. I had received a C.B. for the Erzerum business,
so what with these and my Matabele and South African medals and the
Legion of Honour, I had a chest like the High Priest’s breastplate. I
rejoined in January, and got a brigade on the eve of Arras. There we
had a star turn, and took about as many prisoners as we put infantry
over the top. After that we were hauled out for a month, and
subsequently planted in a bad bit on the Scarpe with a hint that we
would soon be used for a big push. Then suddenly I was ordered home to
report to the War Office, and passed on by them to Bullivant and his
merry men. So here I was sitting in a railway carriage in a grey tweed
suit, with a neat new suitcase on the rack labelled C.B. The initials
stood for Cornelius Brand, for that was my name now. And an old boy in
the corner was asking me questions and wondering audibly why I wasn’t
fighting, while a

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