"In other words, Jim, you're asking me to allow you to commit suicide." He cleared his throat; his voice seemed a little husky. "Good Lord! sir--it's not as bad as that. Call it a forlorn hope, if you like, but ..." The eyes of the two men met, and Brent fell silent. "Gad, my lad, you're a fool, but you're a brave fool! For Heaven's sake, give me a drink." "I may go, Colonel?" "Yes, you may go--as far, that is, as I am concerned. There is the General Staff to get round first." But though the Colonel's voice was gruff, he seemed to have some difficulty in finding his glass. As far as is possible in human nature, Jim Brent, at the period when he gained his V.C. in a manner which made him the hero of the hour--one might almost say of the war--was, I believe, without fear. The blow he had received at the hands of the girl who meant all the world to him had rendered him utterly callous of his life. And it was no transitory feeling: the mood of an hour or a week. It was deeper than the ordinary misery of a man who has taken the knock from a woman, deeper and much less ostentatious. He seemed to view life with a contemptuous toleration that in any other man would have been the merest affectation. But it was not evinced by his words; it was shown, as his Major had said, by his deeds--deeds that could not be called bravado because he never advertised them. He was simply gambling with death, with a cool hand and a steady eye, and sublimely indifferent to whether he won or lost. Up to the time when he played his last great game he had borne a charmed life. According to the book of the words, he should have been killed a score of times, and he told me himself only last week that he went into this final gamble with a taunt on his lips and contempt in his heart. Knowing him as I do, I believe it. I can almost hear him saying to his grim opponent, "Dash it all! I've won every time; for Heaven's sake do something to justify your reputation." But--he didn't; Jim won again. And when he landed in England from a Dutch tramp, having carried out the maddest and most hazardous exploit of the war unscathed, he slipped up on a piece of orange-peel and broke his right leg in two places, which made him laugh so immoderately when the contrast struck him that it cured him--not his leg, but his mind. However, all in due course. * * * * * The first part of the story I heard from Petersen, of the Naval Air Service. I ran into him by accident in a grocer's shop in Hazebrouck--buying stuff for the mess. "What news of Jim?" he cried, the instant he saw me. "Very sketchy," I answered. "He's the worst letter-writer in the world. You know he trod on a bit of orange-peel and broke his leg when he got back to England." "He would." Petersen smiled. "That's just the sort of thing Jim would do. Men like him usually die of mumps, or the effects of a bad oyster."