“I assure you—” stammered Mr. Pothecary. The park-keeper saw him well off the premises, and gave him much gratuitous advice about his future behavior, darkened with melancholy prophecies regarding the would-be felon’s strength of character to live up to it. Leaving the park he struck out towards the more rural neighborhood. He calculated that he must be somewhere in the neighborhood of Hendon. At the end of a lane he met a sallow-faced young man walking rapidly. His eyes were bloodshot and restless. He glanced at Edwin and stopped. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. Edwin drew himself to attention. The young man looked up and down nervously. He was obviously in a great state of distress. “What can I do for you?” “I—I—h-hardly like to ask you, sir, I—” He stammered shockingly. Edwin turned on his most sympathetic manner. “You are suffering. What is it?” “Sh-Sh-Shell-shock, shir.” “Ah!” At last! Some heroic reflex of the war darted through Edwin’s mind. Here was his real chance at last. A poor fellow broken by the war and in need, neglected by an ungrateful country. Almost hidden by his outer coat he observed one of those little strips of colored ribbon, which implied more than one campaign. “Where did you meet your trouble?” he asked. “P—P—P-Palestine, sir, capturing a T-T-Turkish redoubt. I was through Gallipoli, too, sir, but I won’t d-d-distress you. I am in a—in a—hospital at St. Albans, came to see my g-g-g-girl, but she’s g-g-g-gone—v-v-vanished....” “You don’t say so!” “T-t-trouble is I l-l-l-lost my p-pass back. N-not quite enough m-mon—” “Dear me! How much short are you?” “S-S-S-Six shill—S-S-S-Six—” “Six shillings? Well, I’m very sorry. Look here, my good fellow, here’s seven-and-sixpence and God bless you!” “T-T-thank you very much, sir. W-will you give me your n-name and—” “No, no, no, that’s quite all right. I’m very pleased to be of assistance. Please forget all about it.” He pressed the soldier’s hand and hurried on. It was done. He had performed a kind, unselfish action and no one should ever hear of it. Mr. Pothecary’s eyes glowed with satisfaction. Poor fellow! even if the story were slightly exaggerated, what did it matter? He was obviously a discharged soldier, ill, and in need. The seven-and-sixpence would make an enormous difference. He would always cherish the memory of his kind, unknown benefactor. It was a glorious sensation! Why had he never thought of doing a kindly act? It was inspiring, illuminating, almost intoxicating! He recalled with zest the delirious feeling which ran through him when he said, “No, no, no!” He would _not_ give his name. He was the good Samaritan, a ship passing in the night. And now he would be able to go home, or go back to his business. He swung down the lane, singing to himself. As he turned the corner he came to a low bungalow-building. It was in a rather deserted spot. It had a board outside which announced “Tea, cocoa, light refreshments. Cyclists catered for.”