“It was just before we rose from the table, I remember, that she said to me under the cover of the general conversation: ‘My God! Dog-face—it’s not fair.’ “‘Will you tell me?’ I answered. ‘I might help.’ “‘Perhaps I will some day,’ she said, quietly. ‘But you can’t help; no one can do that. It was my fault all through, and the only thing that matters now is that Giles should never know.’ “I don’t quite know why she suddenly confided in me, even to that extent. I suppose with her woman’s intuition she realised that I’d guessed something, and it helps to get a thing off one’s chest at times. Evidently it had been an unexpected meeting, and I cursed myself for having made him play. And yet how could one have foretold? It was just a continuation of the jig-saw started by that damned bit of orange peel. As she said, all that mattered was that Giles—dear old chap!—should never know.” The Soldier smiled a little sadly. “So do the humans propose; but the God that moves the pieces frequently has different ideas. He did—that very afternoon. It was just as I was going that two white-faced nurses clutching two scared children appeared on the scene and babbled incoherently. And then the General’s groom hove in sight—badly cut across the face and shaky at the knees—and from him we got the story. “They’d started off in the General’s dogcart to go to some children’s party, and something had frightened the horse, which had promptly bolted. I knew the brute—a great raking black, though the groom, who was a first-class whip, generally had no difficulty in managing him. But on this occasion apparently he’d got clean away along the road into the town. He might have got the horse under control after a time, when, to his horror, he saw that the gates were closed at the railway crossing in front. And it was at that moment that a man—one of the sergeants from the barracks—had dashed out suddenly from the pavement and got to the horse’s head. He was trampled on badly, but he hung on—and the horse had ceased to bolt when they crashed into the gates. The shafts were smashed, but nothing more. And the horse wasn’t hurt. And they’d carried away the sergeant on an improvised stretcher. No; he hadn’t spoken. He was unconscious. “‘Which sergeant was it?’ I asked, quietly—though I knew the answer before the groom gave it. “‘Sergeant Trevor, sir,’ he said. ‘B squadron.’ “‘Is he—is he badly hurt?’ said the girl, and her face was ashen. “‘I dunno, mum,’ answered the groom. ‘They took ’im off to the ’orspital, and I was busy with the ’orse.’ “‘I’ll ring up, if I may, General,’ I said, and he nodded. “I spoke to Purvis, the R.A.M.C. fellow, and his voice was very grave. They’d brought Trevor in still unconscious, and, though he wouldn’t swear to it at the moment, he was afraid his back was broken. But he couldn’t tell absolutely for certain until he came to. I hung up the receiver and found Mrs. Giles standing behind me. She said nothing—but just waited for me to speak.