For fifteen months John rushed about the fringe of war in his great car. They were days of terrible strain, but his efforts seemed as nothing beside the herculean labour of those wonderful boys who tramped along the tree splintered roads of Flanders, singing in defeat as in victory, dropping swiftly by the roadside in a convulsive cough as death fell upon them from the air. He was up every morning at five, astir before daylight in the cold wintry air, with a long motor journey to the lines, there to watch the coloured panorama of a bombardment, the unearthly silence of "zero" when the barrage lifted, to wait in those minutes when youth leapt forward upon death; and then to visit the clearing stations where men who had been splendid to look upon, so full of the vigour of youth, lay torn in ribbons, demented, delirious. Month after month he went through the hideous routine when suddenly, one night, after writing his despatch, he fell forwards upon his typewriter. They found him in a dead faint. "I've seen this coming," said Biddings. "He's worn himself away--and he'll have company soon," he said, turning to Phipps, "if you don't write and smoke less." A week later John was at the Vernleys, lying about in their rooms, and talking as though all those months had been a nightmare. It was not the same house; Kitty was nursing in London, Alice was on a farm. Bobbie was back home with a wound, hoping to be released daily from a luxurious private hospital in Sussex, "where the chambermaid's a countess and the matron a snob." Muriel--the saga of Muriel, they all called it. She had contributed to history. The story of her stand at Lens had made all England ring with her fame. She had been mentioned in despatches for her heroism under fire. John had not seen her since that memorable day in Ghent, but letters came and went. She wrote vividly of her experiences, and he began to be a little in awe of her obvious efficiency. News of one, he could not gain. There was no mention of Marsh among any of his friends. Bobbie had been curtly silent when asked. "Never heard of him--don't expect he's wounded." Was that a sneer? thought John. Even Mr. Fletcher, forwarding parcels from the boys of his House asked, "We can't trace Marsh--do you know his regiment? He does not reply to letters."