“Sounds like Roy!” whispered Molly. “Then you have not seen anything of Denham for an age?” This was what she rightly judged that Polly was longing to have said. “Pretty near two years and a half—except that one day.” “And he and they didn’t know you would be coming home. So you have no messages for us?” “No, of course they didn’t. The best they could hope for was that I might be sent back to Verdun.” “And they were all quite well?” Polly asked this. Roy was looking intently at Polly. She flushed, and put up one hand to shield her face. “Yes—I know—” Roy said, as if answering a remark. “Of course you’d like to hear of anything he had said. I’m trying to remember. Somehow, I don’t think——” “He did not speak of any of us, you mean—that one day.” There was a strained composure in Polly’s manner. Roy was trying still to conjure up the past. “Such a lot happened just then, and I’ve gone through so much since! But I fancy I should remember, if he had said anything particular. You see, he had walked the whole way from Valenciennes to Verdun, when he was only half over an illness, giving up his horse to a young fellow who was worse than himself; or at all events Den thought him worse. And he was desperately done up. I never saw anyone look more ill than he did, the day he came in.” Polly made a movement of surprise. “Denham!” she said incredulously. “Why—he never found anything too much for him.” Molly put an unfortunate question. “Do you mean that he wasn’t able to talk?” “Well, no, I don’t mean that. We did talk a good deal that evening; much more than Den was fit for. And there was a letter from—from _her_—” in a lower voice. “There was a letter to my father, which had come not long before. She said in it how well Polly was looking. I read the letter aloud to Den, but I don’t think he said much. He was too thoroughly dead-beat to do more than answer questions. My mother said something, I remember, about there being letters from everybody—Polly as well—most likely on the road. I don’t think Denham said anything even then—except that he thought the letter I had read ought to be burnt. I don’t believe it ever was, by-the-by. So much happened afterwards.” “And the very next day—was it?—you were taken off by those horrible gendarmes,” added Molly. Polly had turned her face away. Roy gave her a glance, then whispered— “I say, Molly, one minute! I want a word with her.” Molly obediently fled, and she had seldom done a harder thing in her whole life. Roy walked across the rug, and bent over Polly. As he had expected, there were tears upon her cheek. “Polly, you’ll let me speak—will you? I want you to understand.” A hasty movement disposed of the tears, and she turned a quiet face towards him. “I think I do understand.” “Den is not the man to change.” “Many men do change—so easily.” “Not Denham. That’s not his sort.” She smiled a little. “My dear Roy, you have not seen him even—except that one day—since—how long ago?”