“Of course I was with him,” Réchamp retorted, with a sudden harshness which made me aware that I had grown harsh myself. But I had been almost sure the man wasn’t anywhere near death when I left him. I opened the door of the ambulance and climbed in with my lantern. He didn’t appear to have moved, but he was dead sure enough--had been for two or three hours, by the feel of him. It must have happened not long after I left.... Well, I’m not a doctor, anyhow.... I don’t think Réchamp and I exchanged a word during the rest of that run. But it was my fault and not his if we didn’t. By the mere rub of his sleeve against mine as we sat side by side on the motor I knew he was conscious of no bar between us: he had somehow got back, in the night’s interval, to a state of wholesome stolidity, while I, on the contrary, was tingling all over with exposed nerves. I was glad enough when we got back to the base at last, and the grim load we carried was lifted out and taken into the hospital. Réchamp waited in the courtyard beside his car, lighting a cigarette in the cold early sunlight; but I followed the bearers and the surgeon into the whitewashed room where the dead man was laid out to be undressed. I had a burning spot at the pit of my stomach while his clothes were ripped off him and the bandages undone: I couldn’t take my eyes from the surgeon’s face. But the surgeon, with a big batch of wounded on his hands, was probably thinking more of the living than the dead; and besides, we were near the front, and the body before him was an enemy’s. He finished his examination and scribbled something in a note-book. “Death must have taken place nearly five hours ago,” he merely remarked: it was the conclusion I had already come to myself. “And how about the papers?” the surgeon continued. “You have them, I suppose? This way, please.” We left the half-stripped body on the blood-stained oil-cloth, and he led me into an office where a functionary sat behind a littered desk. “The papers? Thank you. You haven’t examined them? Let us see, then.” I handed over the leather note-case I had thrust into my pocket the evening before, and saw for the first time its silver-edged corners and the coronet in one of them. The official took out the papers and spread them on the desk between us. I watched him absently while he did so. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation. “Ah--that’s a haul!” he said, and pushed a bit of paper toward me. On it was engraved the name: Oberst Graf Benno von Scharlach.... “A good riddance,” said the surgeon over my shoulder. I went back to the courtyard and saw Réchamp still smoking his cigarette in the cold sunlight. I don’t suppose I’d been in the hospital ten minutes; but I felt as old as Methuselah. My friend greeted me with a smile. “Ready for breakfast?” he said, and a little chill ran down my spine.... But I said: “Oh, all right--come along....”