Henry opened one of the envelopes and turned the inclosure over in quest of the writer's signature. There it was--J. A. Starkley-Davenport. All three letters were from the same hand, penned at dates several weeks apart. They said that before her marriage the writer's mother had been a Miss Mary Starkley, daughter of a London merchant by the name of Richard Starkley. Richard Starkley, a colonial by birth with trade connections with the West Indies, had come from Beaver Dam in the province of New Brunswick. The letters said further that their writer had read in the casualty lists the name of Lieut. Henry Starkley of the Canadian Engineers, and that after diligent inquiry he had learned that this same officer had registered at the Canadian High Commissioner's office in October, 1914, and given his London address as the Tudor Hotel. Failing to obtain any further information concerning Henry Starkley, the writer had kept a constant eye on the Tudor Hotel. He begged Mr. Henry Starkley to ring up Mayfair 2607, without loss of time, should any one of these letters ever come to his hand. "What's his hurry, I wonder?" remarked Henry. "After three generations without a word I guess he'll have to wait until to-morrow morning to hear from the Starkleys of Beaver Dam." "Why not let him wait for three more generations?" suggested Dick. "His grandfather, that London merchant, soon forgot about the people back in the woods at Beaver Dam. Since the second battle of Ypres, this lad with the hitched-up-double name wants to be seen round with you, Henry." "If that's all, he does not want much," said Henry. "We'll take a look at him, anyway. Don't forget that the first Starkley of Beaver Dam was once an English soldier and that there was a first battle of Ypres before there was a second." The brothers, the lieutenant of engineers and the infantry private, had dinner at a restaurant where there were shaded candles and music; then they went to a theater. Although the war was now only a year old, London had already grown accustomed to the "gentleman ranker." Brothers, cousins and even sons of officers in the little old army were now private soldiers and noncommissioned officers in the big new army. The uniform was the great thing. Rank badges denoted differences of degree, not of kind. So Lieut. Henry Starkley and Private Dick Starkley, together at their little luxurious table for two and later elbow to elbow at the theater, did not cause comment. Immediately after breakfast the next morning Henry rang up the Mayfair number. A voice of inquiring deference, a voice that suggested great circumspection and extreme polish, answered him. Henry asked for Mr. Starkley-Davenport. "You want the captain, sir," corrected the voice. "Mr. David was killed at Ypres in '14. What name, sir?" "Starkley," replied Henry. "Of Canada, sir? Of Beaver Dam? Here is the captain, sir."