"What thousands of other Joneses have done," answered Ralton. "He wasn’t particularly brave, and he wasn’t particularly cowardly; he was just an ordinary man who carried on because he couldn’t do anything else, and thought in his spare time quite a lot about—the one at home. You see—it was shortly going to be two: and that makes a man think—quite a deal, especially when he’s away at a war.... Have you got any children?" he asked, abruptly. The girl shook her head, and after a while he went on. "It was just before a battle that he got the wire he had been expecting, and after he’d read it he sat staring at it dazedly. It just couldn’t be; of course there was a mistake. There must be. He knew that sometimes women did die at such times; but ... but not his woman. It couldn’t be his wife that was dead—the thing was preposterous. Such a thing couldn’t happen, any more than the one man’s name can ever appear in the casualty list. Other names perhaps—but not his." He hit at a tuft of grass with the club in his hand. "At last it penetrated into his brain, and by that time the battle was over. He gathered that he had done rather well—been recommended for a decoration of sorts, and he laughed like hell at the folly of it all. He felt he only wanted one thing, and that was to go after his girl. He didn’t care a rap about the son he’d never seen; he knew it was being well looked after, and he wouldn’t even go on leave to see it. It was only the girl he thought about, and she—well, she was unattainable except by one method. So he deliberately set to work to secure that method." Ralton’s eyes were fixed on the girl now, and her cigarette had dropped unheeded on the grass. "He ran the most unheard-of risks; he volunteered for any and every stunt that came along—but the Boche seemed to miss him on purpose. For weeks and months it continued—but it was no good: he bore a charmed life. "And now, my lady of the links, comes the point. There came a time—one night, to be exact—when in the silence of his dugout a thought crept into his mind, a nasty, persistent thought. He was furious at the thought; he argued with it fiercely—but the thought remained. And so, in order to prove that the thought was wrong, he redoubled his efforts to secure the end which he assured himself he wanted. Before he had been foolish, now he became damned foolish. He did the most utterly stupid things, just to prove to himself that he intended to die; and Fate decreed otherwise. He didn’t die—but one evening the other man did——" "I don’t quite follow," said the girl. "What other man?"