“I turned on him, all the friendship and the memories of the years behind swept away. I didn’t know what I was saying. I’m not sure now; something about the things one doesn’t do, that it wasn’t war the way we fought it to drop a man thousands of feet who was only doing his duty. It was murder. Over and over I said it—that word murder. He wasn’t my friend; he was a murderer! “I went out of the tent to escape his staring, pleading eyes—child’s eyes. Even while I was saying the words I knew he didn’t understand. He had done what he thought justifiable, necessary, he wanted to get back to me, and I called him a murderer. “Once just as I started for the mess to get him something to eat I thought I heard him call my name; but I went on. I needed more time. “I was gone perhaps ten minutes. When I reëntered the tent it was empty. Esmè was nowhere about, but I didn’t think of looking for him then, for I thought he’d probably joined one of the other men. Later I got worried, and we started a search. He wasn’t in our camp. No one had seen him. “We waited and wondered. I prayed. Then I found a little scribbled note knocking about among my things. “We never found any trace even of him or the smallest clue, just the note; that’s all I have left of Esmè. Here it is: ‘You’ve tried to tell me your opinion of the trick I played on an enemy. In any other arm of the service what I did would have gone, been all right, been smart. Isn’t that what you meant, Marston? But with our boys, because we’ve chosen to have a different, a higher standard, because we fight cleanly, what I did was—dirty. Well, I understand. You and the other men _are_ different; I’m not, but I can pay. I’m going back. Don’t try to stop me before I reach their lines. You can’t. I go to render unto Cæsar. A life for a life. To give them at least my death, since I can no longer offer even that proudly to France.’ “There has been bravery and heroism in the war, but Esmè went back; he knew to what—yet he went. “God grant he is dead! I tried to make words express an inexpressible thing. All my life to live out—remembering, knowing I killed my friend!” Perhaps Marston went on speaking; I don’t know. I only remember the broken stem of his glass, the stain that was spreading slowly over the white cloth, and the dripping, dripping red of his hands. IMAGINATION _By_ GORDON HALL GEROULD From _Scribner’s Magazine_ _Copyright, 1918, by Charles Scribner’s Sons._ _Copyright, 1919, by Gordon Hall Gerould._ As I gave my coat and hat to the boy, I caught sight of Orrington, waddling into the farther reaches of the club just ahead of me. “Here’s luck!” I thought to myself, and with a few hasty strides overtook him.