For a while she stood by the fireplace smiling a little sadly. Then she crossed the room and switched on a special light. It was so placed that it shone directly on the photograph of an officer in the full dress of the 9th Hussars. And at length she knelt down in front of the table on which the photograph stood, so that the light fell on her own face also—glinting through the red-gold of her hair, glistening in the mistiness of her eyes. For maybe five minutes she knelt there, till it seemed to her as if a smile twitched round the lips of the officer—a human smile, an understanding smile. “Oh, Peter!” she whispered, “he was your pal. Forgive me, my love—forgive me. He’s been such a dear.” And once again the photograph seemed to smile at her tenderly. “It’s only you, Peter, till Journey’s End—but I must give him the next best, mustn’t I? It’s only fair, isn’t it?—and you hated unfairness. But, dear God! it’s hard.” Slowly she stretched out her left hand, so that the signet ring touched the big silver frame. “Your ring, Peter,” she whispered, “your dear ring.” And with a sudden little choking gasp she raised it to her lips. II It was in a side-street close to High Street, Kensington, that it happened—the unbelievable thing. Fate decided to give Jimmy two months of happiness; cynically allowed him to come within a fortnight of his wedding, and then—— For a few seconds he couldn’t believe his eyes; he stood staring like a man bereft of his senses. There on the opposite side of the road, playing a barrel-organ, was Peter himself—Peter, who had been reported “Missing, believed killed,” three years before. Peter, whom a sergeant had categorically said he had seen killed with his own eyes. And there he was playing a barrel-organ in the streets of London. Like a man partially dazed Jimmy Lethbridge went over towards him. As he approached the player smiled genially, and touched his cap with his free hand. Then after a while the smile faded, and he stared at Jimmy suspiciously. “My God, Peter!” Lethbridge heard himself say, “what are you doing this for?” And as he spoke he saw a girl approaching—a girl who placed herself aggressively beside Peter. “Why shouldn’t I?” demanded the player. “And who the hell are you calling Peter?” “But,” stammered Jimmy, “don’t you know me, old man?” “No!” returned the other truculently. “And I don’t want to, neither.” “A ruddy torf, ’e is, Bill,” chimed in the girl. “Good God!” muttered Lethbridge, even then failing to understand the situation. “You playing a barrel-organ!” “Look here, ’op it, guv’nor.” Peter spoke with dangerous calmness. “I don’t want no blinking scenes ’ere. The police ain’t too friendly as it is, and this is my best pitch.” “But why didn’t you let your pals know you were back, old man?” said Jimmy feebly. “Your governor, and all of us?”