The young officer halted, his hand raised for a moment. "Oh, sorry," he cried, cheerfully. "How d'you do?" He turned and held out his hand, but in front of John, a little to the left, as though he might be there, and the face turned that way, smiling at him. A glance, and John took the misdirected hand and looked into sightless blue eyes. "How d'ye do, Mr. Dean?--Glad to meet any of Muriel's friends. I'm rather sudden on the scene, eh!" He laughed boyishly. "And they'll wonder why she's got this blind old war horse--won't they, Muriel?" His laughter would have been infectious at any other time, but now it echoed as in an empty room and was engulfed in silence. Vernley watching it all, stood by the door. Muriel was crying now; the blind man stood gripping the chair, sensing something unusual. "I must hurry away now," said John. "Good-bye." He shook the soldier's hand again, then moved towards Muriel, and without speaking raised her hand to his lips. For a long moment he held it so, while she looked down on his bowed head mistily. A moment later he had closed the door behind him and was in the corridor. But he was not to go alone. Vernley hurried after him. "Scissors, my dear old Scissors!" he cried, taking John's arm as they walked towards the lift. "It's a mystery, I don't understand it, I'm sure she--she--oh damn! you know what I mean! Let's go somewhere, I'm all upside down!" The lift took them out to the world again. CHAPTER III I They were very patient with him at the office of the _Daily Post_. He delayed his return to the Grand Fleet again and again. Merritt, with an observant eye saw that the young man was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, but he could not disguise his surprise, when, after fourteen days' absence, during which they had no word from him, Dean entered his room and said he could not go back to Scapa Flow again, and wished to resign. Merritt stared for a moment and poured out a flood of reasons against such preposterous folly. There was his duty to the paper, which had given him his chance and helped him to fame. Would he let Walsh down in this manner? What of the public that read his despatches so avidly? It was base ingratitude, sheer folly. The gods had poured all the good gifts into his lap. John laughed bitterly at this. "What's come over you, Dean? I've never seen you like this before; you've been going about with a green hue on your face for the last two weeks. Are you crossed in love?" "That's no business of yours!" flared John. The suddenness and intensity of the reply startled him. Merritt veiled his surprise: he had touched a secret spring somewhere. "Oh, I'm sorry, Dean--but you're getting a little difficult to deal with." "I'm sick of life!" said John, dropping into a chair and beating a tattoo upon the table with his hands. Merritt let him brood awhile. "What's the matter?" he asked, "are you tired of the Navy?" "No--but I want to go away, right away!"