"It's I, Captain Hazlewood--Miss Potberry. I had instructions from the War Office to report to you. I was unfortunately delayed upon my journey, and when I arrived from Salonika you had left. Is there anything you would like done?" "Oh, my God!" he half groaned, half laughed. "I see that even my death-bed is going to be haunted by departmental imbecility. Who on earth sent you to Nish from Salonika?" "Colonel Bullingham-Jones, to whom I reported in Salonika, knew nothing about me and advised me to come on here as soon as possible." "Officious ass!" Hazlewood muttered. "Why didn't you go back when you found I wasn't here?" he added to his secretary. "There was no way of getting back, Captain Hazlewood. I believe that the enemy has cut the line." "I'm sorry you've had all this trouble for nothing," he said. "However, you and Miss Scarlett must settle between you how to get away. You'd better hang on to one of the Red Cross units." "I'm afraid I may have to leave my typewriter behind," said Miss Potberry. "Have I your permission?" "You have," he said, smiling with his eyes through the glaze of the drug. "You couldn't give me a written authorization?" asked Miss Potberry. "Being government property--" "No, I can only give you verbal instructions. Both my arms have been shot away, or as nearly shot away as doesn't make it possible to write." "Oh, I beg your pardon. Then to whom should I report next?" "I don't know. It might be St. Peter, with winter coming on and Albania to be crossed. No, no, don't you bother about reporting. Just follow the crowd and you'll be all right. Good-by, Miss Potberry. Sorry you've had such a long journey for nothing. Sorry about everything." He beckoned Sylvia close to him with his eyes. "For Christ's sake get rid of her or I shall have another hemorrhage." Sylvia asked Miss Potberry to go back to the hotel and get packed. When the secretary had gone, she knelt by Hazlewood. "Michael Fane arrived yet?" he asked. She shook her head. "I had something to give him." The wounded man's face became more definitely lined with pain in the new worry of Fane's non-appearance. "I want you to give him a letter. It's under my pillow. If by chance he doesn't come, perhaps you'd be good enough to post it when you get an opportunity. Miss Pauline Grey, Wychford Rectory, Oxfordshire." Sylvia found the letter, which was still unaddressed. "If Michael comes, I'd like him to take it to her himself when he gets to England. Thanks awfully. Give him my love. He was a great friend of mine. Yes, a great friend. Thanks awfully for helping me. I don't like to worry the poor devils here. They've got such a lot to worry them. Antitch died while you were burning my papers." Sylvia looked at the muffled figure whose eyes no longer stared with troubled imperception.