_I have come back alive out of death. I have been a prisoner, you know, for nearly four years. Now I have been exchanged—because I am useless to France. I am rather run down, you see, and my right arm is gone. But take heart, dearest. I can do nothing just yet, and the Army has sent me home, but old Monsieur Laffargue says I shall be as strong as ever in ten or twelve months. I am with the Dudoys. René has been back some time. Do you know he is blind? . ._ Blind. . . . Those gentle grey eyes sightless. . . . Those strong brown fingers picking and feeling their way. . . . Madeleine was at the War Office within the half-hour. The clerk she had seen was gone, and another attended to her case. This was a kindly fellow, who had dried many eyes. He heard her out gravely. Then— “Madame, be happy. Absolutely your husband is safe. Take it from me. He has not even a scratch. Always the wife hears at once. That he has not been to see you is easily explained. Ten to one he is in the East—Salonica, making fat Bulgars perspire. He wrote and told you, of course, but the letter was sunk. These Germans! Madame, believe and be happy. Your husband is safe. I tell you he will come back.” Madeleine stole out of the building as she would have stolen out of a dock. She had committed a crime, and had been given judgment. She would have given anything to go to Ruffec . . . anything—except the one thing she had. This was her self-respect. If she went to Ruffec, if once she saw those strong brown fingers groping their pitiful way, the flesh might spoil the spirit of its only hoard. And that meant poverty she could not face. She was a good girl. * * * * * Eighteen months had gone by, when Lady Joan Satinwood told her French maid that it was her determined intention to winter in France. “We shall go down by car, Madeleine—the Major and I, and you and the chauffeur. It’ll be great fun, and I expect you’ll be thrilled to see your country again.” “Yes, madame.” “I suppose you’ve—you’ve no news?” “Of my husband? No, madame.” “I’m sorry. But don’t despair. Remember my cousin, Sir George. And he was reported ‘killed.’ Two and a half years afterwards, Madeleine, he came walking in. . . .” “Yes, madame.” When Madeleine learned in mid-Channel, some three weeks later, that they were to go by Poitiers she felt very faint. . . . Poitiers lies north of Ruffec, just forty-one miles. “_Et de Poitiers?_ . . . . After we ’ave lef’ Poitiers? . . .” “Angoulême,” said the chauffeur, thumbing his itinerary. “That’s right. Vivonne, Chaunay, Ruffec, Angoulême. Sleep Angoulême. Nex’ day—Barbézieux, Bordeaux. Sleep Bor—— ’Elp!” He dropped his paper and caught his companion as she swayed. Then he carried her into the saloon and sought for a stewardess. . . . Later that day he recounted his experience to a friend. “I arst ’er if she was a good sailor, too,” he concluded aggrievedly.