"Ah, London--London--the big, old town where they pull the strings that make us dance!" General Crandall, leaning against the window frame, his eyes on the incoming fleet, voiced the chronic nostalgia of the man in the service. "The town for me!" Woodhouse exclaimed with fervor. "I'm sick for the sight of her--the sounds of her--the smells of her: the orange peel and the asphalt and the gas coming in over Vauxhall Bridge." Bishop turned on him admiringly. "By George, that does hit it off, old man--no mistake!" Jane was out on the balcony now with field glasses she had picked up from the governor's desk. She called back through the curtains, summoning Woodhouse to come and pick out for her the flagship. When he had joined her, Bishop stepped quickly to his superior's side. "What do you think, General? By George, it seems to me it would need an Englishman to give one that sniff of London this chap just got off." "Exactly," the general caught him up crisply. "And an Englishman's done it--Rudyard Kipling. Any German who can read English can read Kipling." "But what do you think, General? Chap strikes me as genuine--that portrait of Lady Evelyn clenched things, I take it." "Confound it! We haven't absolutely proved anything, pro or con," General Crandall grumbled, in perplexity. "Thing'll have to be decided by the Indian--what he finds, or doesn't find--in Woodhouse's room. Let you know soon as I hear." Bishop hurried to make his adieux to Lady Crandall and her guest, and was starting for the doors when Woodhouse, stepping in from the balcony, offered to join him. The governor stopped him. "By the way, Captain, if you'll wait for me a minute I should like your company down the Rock." Bishop had gone, and the general, taking Woodhouse's agreement for granted, also left the room. Woodhouse, suddenly thrown back on his guard, could find nothing to do but assent. But when Lady Crandall excused herself on the score of having to dress for dinner, he welcomed compensation in being alone with the girl who had gone with him steadfastly, unflinchingly, through moments of trial. She stood before the curtains screening the balcony, hesitant, apparently meditating flight. To her Woodhouse went, in his eyes an appeal for a moment alone which would not be denied. "You were--very kind to me," he began, his voice very low and broken. "If it had not been--for your help, I would have----" "I could not see you--see you grope blindly--and fail." She turned her head to look back through the opened glass doors to the swiftly moving dots in the distance that represented the incoming battle fleet. "But was there no other reason except just humanity to prompt you?" He had possessed himself of one of her hands now, and his eyes compelled her to turn her own to meet their gaze. "Once when they--were trying to trip me, I caught a look from your eyes, and--and it was more than--than pity."