The sight of the Cenotaph reminded Marradine that Remembrance Day was nearly at hand again. This annual ceremony, the heart of which lay so close to his own work, always filled him with an intensity of patriotic and heroic feeling. What a wonderful sight it must be for those million dead Britons to look down—if they could look down—upon the dense black and white sea of their comrades and descendants, motionless and silent in memory of them. To see the King—head of the greatest Empire the world has ever known—and all his ministers, his admirals and generals, standing there in reverence, with bared heads. Quaint in a way, when you thought of some of the million whose memory they were hallowing—scoundrels, a lot of them, cowards a good many, and the great bulk only fighting and dying because they had to. Still it was a noble death. War itself was a noble, an heroic affair, in a way, bringing out all that was best in a man. Sir Leward felt a thrill of pride that he himself had been a soldier. The great Government offices were emptying now and the hurrying crowds of men and women, all with the eager look of “home and supper” in their eyes, gave to the familiar scene an air of vitality, slightly romanticized by the soft haze of autumn twilight. As Marradine expected, Inez Fratten was at home and in the middle of tea in the comfortable morning-room next to the front door. She was looking even more attractive than Sir Leward remembered and he was glad when a dark young man who was with her, introduced by some name faintly resembling his own, muttered some excuse and departed. Marradine accepted a large cup of tea and a muffin. “How nice of you to call,” said Inez, smiling sweetly—as she would have called it—at him, after Sir Leward had murmured suitable words of consolation. As a matter of fact Inez was rather at a loss where to “place” her visitor; she remembered meeting him at some dinner, that he was something important under the Government, and that he had paid her rather heavy-handed attention after dinner, but she was not sure whether, under his official manner, he was young-old, or old-young, “rather a dear,” or “a pompous ass.” She didn’t even know whether it was worth the bother of finding out. His first words, however, quickly switched her mind off these trivial matters to one of, for her, intense interest. “I saw your advertisement in _The Times_, Miss Fratten. I wondered whether I could help you in any way—I daresay you know that I’m at Scotland Yard.” “I hadn’t quite realized it—I knew you were something important,” said Inez. “I hope you don’t think it was very silly of me to put that advertisement in.” “What was in your mind? Don’t tell me, of course, if you don’t want to—I’m not here officially—but if I’m to help . . .” Marradine left the sentence unfinished.