For, after all, I _knew_ there wasn’t a paper of any sort on that man when he was lifted into my ambulance the night before: the French officials attend to their business too carefully for me not to have been sure of that. And there wasn’t the least shred of evidence to prove that he hadn’t died of his wounds during the unlucky delay in the forest; or that Réchamp had known his tank was leaking when we started out from the lines. “I could do with a _café complet_, couldn’t you?” Réchamp suggested, looking straight at me with his good blue eyes; and arm in arm we started off to hunt for the inn.... End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Coming Home, by Edith Wharton