Another voice sounded in Henry's ear, asking whether it was Henry Starkley of the sappers on the other end of the line. Henry replied in the affirmative. "It is Jack Davenport speaking--Starkley-Davenport," continued the voice. "Glad you have my letters at last. Are you at the same hotel? Can you wait there half an hour for me?" "I'll wait," said Henry. He and Dick awaited the arrival of the grandson of Richard Starkley with lively curiosity. That he was a captain, and that some one connected with him, perhaps a brother, had been killed at Ypres in 1914, added considerable interest to him in their eyes. "Size him up before trying any of your old-soldier airs on him, young fellow," warned Henry. They sat in the lounge of the hotel and kept a sharp watch on everyone who entered by the revolving doors. It was a quiet place, as hotels go in London, but during the half hour of their watching more people than the entire population of Beaver Dam were presented to their scrutiny. At last a pale young fellow in a Panama hat and a gray-flannel suit entered. Under his left shoulder was a crutch and in his right hand a big, rubber-shod stick. His left knee was bent, and his left foot swung clear of the ground. His hands were gloved in gray, and he wore a smoke-blue flower in his buttonhole. Only his necktie was out of tone with the rest of his equipment: it was in stripes of blue and red and yellow. Behind him, close to his elbow, came a thin, elderly man who was dressed in black. "Lieut. Starkley?" he inquired of the hall porter. At that Henry and Dick both sprang to their feet and went across to the man in gray. Before they could introduce themselves the young stranger edged himself against his elderly companion, thus making a prop of him, hooked the crook of his stick into a side pocket of his coat, and extended his right hand to Henry. He did it all so swiftly and smoothly that it almost escaped notice; and, pitiful as it was, it almost escaped pity. "Will you lunch with me--if you have nothing better to do?" he asked. "You're on leave, I know, and it sounds cheek to ask--but I want to talk to you about something rather important." "Of course--and here is my young brother," said Henry. The captain shook hands with Dick and then stared at him. "You are only a boy," he said; and then, seeing the blood mount to Dick's tanned cheeks, he continued, "and all the better for that, perhaps. The nippiest man in my platoon was only nineteen." "Of course you remember, sir, Mr. David had not attained his twentieth birthday," the elderly man in black reminded him. "You are right, Wilson," said the captain. "Hit in October, '14. He was my young brother. There were just the two of us. Shall we toddle along? I kept my taxi." Capt. J. A. Starkley-Davenport occupied three rooms and a bath in his own house, which was a big one in a desirable part of town. The remaining rooms were occupied by his servants. And such servants!