And Wakefield smiled to himself and closed his eyes again. But Kenneth Meredith was still in blissful ignorance of his surroundings. CHAPTER XXIX WHO FIRED THAT TORPEDO? IT was close on eight o'clock on a clear October evening that Kenneth Meredith, promoted to Lieutenant-Commander R.N.V.R., and having the distinctive letters D.S.C. tacked on to his name, was pacing the crowded departure platform at King's Cross. Six months was a big chunk out of a man's life--six months of comparative idleness, spent partly in Haslar Hospital, partly in a convalescent home on the South Coast, and latterly at his own home. But carving fantastic-shaped pieces of shell--which, being German by origin, showed decided tendencies to produce gangrene--out of a patient and allowing the wounds to heal takes time, especially when the fragments are lodged in close proximity to the spine. For some weeks it was touch and go, but Meredith's record of clean living and high vitality were in his favour. And now he found himself at King's Cross, bound north to take command of M.L. 1497, attached to the fleet at Scapa Flow. Only once since that memorable May evening when he travelled south in a hospital train had Kenneth been in London. That was a fortnight ago, when he had business at the Admiralty. Just outside the old entrance he encountered a burly, bearded man with one arm in a sling and the D.S.O. ribbon on his breast. It was Morpeth, very much down in the mouth despite the fact that he had been decorated by his Sovereign. The grievance was that "Tough Geordie's" sea-days were over. Neither the Royal Navy nor the Mercantile Marine has a use for a one-armed man. It was useless to remind My Lords that Nelson was one-armed, besides possessing only one eye. _Autres temps, autres moeurs_. So Morpeth was given a pension for wounds and sent out to join the vast and ever-increasing throng of wounded heroes, to jog along as best he might on a sum that, taking into consideration the low purchasing power of a "Bradbury," was barely sufficient to keep his head above water. Apart from that chance meeting, Meredith had heard from Morpeth but twice. The R.N.R. officer was a bad correspondent at the best of times, and now, hampered by physical disabilities, he simply could not bring himself to put pen to paper. It was different as far as Wakefield was concerned. Wakefield, too, had passed through some critical moments during his prolonged stay in hospital, but from the first, even though he had to correspond through the medium of a hospital nurse, he never failed to keep in touch with his late subordinate and brother-in-arms. He had been awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, and had been appointed to M.L. 1499, also attached to the Scapa Flow Base.