Early next morning, in a large military ward of a London hospital, Austin Selwyn woke from a sleep that had been charged with black dreams, and tried to recall the events leading to his present whereabouts. By slow, tortuous process he reconstructed the previous evening as far as the moment when he had heard the warning guns. After that the incidents grew dim, and faded into incoherency. He seemed to remember rushing somewhere in a motor-vehicle. He distinctly recalled seeing a policeman in Trafalgar Square. Yes, that was very clear--quite the most vivid impression of the whole night, indeed. He would hang on to that policeman. With the care of an Arctic explorer establishing his base before going farther into _terra incognita_, he attached the threads of his wandering mind to that limb of the law, and groped in all the directions of his memory's compass. But it was of no avail. Tired out with the futile efforts he had made, his bandaged head sank back in the pillows, and the vivid policeman in Trafalgar Square was reluctantly surrendered as a negligible means of solution. When he next awoke, it was to the sound of many voices. There were two that were very close--one on either side of him, in fact. Affecting sleep, Selwyn listened carefully. 'Wot's that you say, Jock?' said a Cockney voice to his left. 'I was obsairvin',' said the other, 'that Number Twenty-sax is occupied this mornin'.' 'Ow yus, so it is. I was 'oping as 'ow me pal the Duke of Mudturtle would buy the plice next to mine. But he don't look a bad cove, wot you can see under 'is farncy 'ead-dress.' 'I dinna think he can be o' the airmy. His skin's as pale as a lassie in love.' 'In the army, Jock? Don't hinsult 'im. 'E's one of the 'eroes of the 'ome front--hindispensibles, they calls 'em.' 'Weel, weel, noo,' expostulated the Scot, 'dinna tak' ower muckle for granted. We canna a' gang tae the war, or wha wud bide at hame an' mak the whusky?' 'By Gar!' said a third patient opposite, sitting up suddenly and speaking in the disjointed but strangely musical dialect of the French-Canadian, 'she is a wise feller, dis Scoachie.' 'Bonn swoir, Frenchy,' said the Cockney graciously. ''Ow alley you mantenongs?' 'Verra good, Tommee. How is de godam bow bells?' 'Well, the last toime I sees me old side-kick the Lord Mayor, 'e says as 'ow they was took by a Canadian for a soovenir.' 'Na,' said the Scotsman reprovingly; 'I'm thinkin' yon's exaggerated.'