"Well--go back to France. I'll speak to Walsh." "No--that's too near--right away, if I go anywhere." Merritt looked at him, but said nothing. John rose. "Come in to-morrow--Walsh may want to see you." "Right--and I want to see him. Merritt, I've decided to throw it all up--this correspondent work--I'm going to join up." If Merritt felt like falling, he did not show it. He was sure now that the strain had affected the boy's reason. "Oh--well, you'll be a quitter if you do." "How?" "With a pen like yours, you've a duty to perform. Haven't you thought of all the people who read newspapers for a gleam of comfort? You've a sympathetic note in your work--and many a worried mother's had a little more hope to hold out with, after she's finished your column." It was the first time Merritt had praised him. "If you want to go--you'll go, of course, and we can't stop you--but you fall in my estimation. If it's England you want to got out of--well, we want a man in Mesopotamia." Mesopotamia, the East! Again and again John's thoughts had travelled eastwards. In the last few weeks a deep longing for the skies of his boyhood had possessed him; he wanted to throw off all the Western civilisation now curbing and fretting him. "If you'll send me there," he replied quietly, "I'll carry on--but I want to get right away." Merritt had won his point. John promised to return and see Walsh in the afternoon. The subsequent interview was short and satisfactory. He was to sail from Plymouth in a fortnight, his ultimate destination being Basra. "It's strange, Dean, but I didn't care to propose this when I first thought of it some time ago," said Walsh, as he bade him good-bye. "I thought you'd dislike being so far from your home-base." Downstairs again, John, with the words "home-base" echoing in his ears, laughed to himself. What home-base had he here in England, with friends dying in every trench and the world tumbling in ruin about his ears? The East--that was, after all, his true home-base. He should never have left it. To this hour it called him; its witchery was in his blood; almost he could smell the distinctive odour, hear the jingle of camel bells as the caravans wound out along the old highways. And then a pang of regret smote him. He had friends here, good friends. Ever since that terrible night when his whole future had collapsed like a pack of cards, Vernley had been assiduous in his attention. They had passed the ensuing days together, doing nothing in particular, strolling here, eating there, talking of everything but the one thing that obsessed them both. Once only had they faced reality. "I can't think why she did it, Scissors, I can't really. She must have been deranged with all she'd seen, and her pity overcame her--women are at the mercy of moods. I've not spoken to her yet about it--I daren't trust myself at present, but when I do, I--" John put a detaining hand on his arm.