“He saved the Army—and baulked Napoleon. None except we who were there could know the true state of things—the hopeless inefficiency of the Spaniards. If he had had treble the number of men, and sufficient supplies, England might have told a very different tale to-day. What could be done by mortal man, under such circumstances, he did.” Renewed silence. Jack studied the other gravely. “You’re not fit for any more of this! When did you hear last from home? So long? And you actually didn’t know that Roy was in Spain? Smart young officer, too. He came in more than once for particular notice.” Jack found himself verging on another allusion to the name which filled their thoughts, and he turned to a fresh subject. “This Commandant of yours at Verdun—Wirion—must be a queer chap, judging from reports of him in the English papers.” “He—was.” “Not here now?” “Courcelles is the present Commandant. Wirion went too far. There were some scandalous cases—young Englishmen fleeced to the tune of five thousand pounds.” “What a vile shame!” “Some of us made a stir, and facts were carried to headquarters. Wirion was suspended, and he received a hint that he might as well put himself out of the way. He acted upon the hint.” “You mean that he——?” “Shot himself.” “Present man any improvement?” “Oppressions are a degree more carefully veiled.” Denham lifted his face from his hands with a sudden movement. “What am I thinking about? You must be in want of food.” “No, it’s all right. I went to a café on arrival. Your next meal is soon enough for me.” The absence of any inquiry after Polly was arousing Jack’s wonder. At first, in the engrossing interest of that other subject, he had not so much noticed Denham’s reticence, but now each minute it grew more marked. Should he speak of Polly himself? No, that would not do. The first mention ought to be from Ivor. So Jack decided, not realising that his own silence might be misconstrued. Some questions as to his wounds followed. Denham had moved to the large arm-chair, and was leaning back with a spiritless look. Jack wondered anew, and at length he could not resist putting forth a slight feeler. “Are there no folks at home of whom you would fain hear?” Ivor took the hint, looked straight at him, and said— “Is Polly married yet?” Jack’s breath was taken away. He was like one who has received a slap in the face. This—from Ivor! “Upon—my—word!” he ejaculated. “You take it coolly. Uncommon coolly!” “I have at least a right to ask the question.” For a moment Jack was very nearly in a passion, but the anger went down as fast as it had arisen. “Of course you don’t mean—— But, I say, what in the wide world made you think of such a thing? Polly married! No, nor like to be.” “I heard that she was engaged.” “To whom?” “The Admiral’s nephew—Peirce.” “Who told you the lie?” “Then—it was a lie!” “You might have known it. Who told you?” “One whom I should have counted trustworthy.”