The Squire was not likely to forget John Boyce, one of the quietest, gentlest, and pluckiest of the many wounded men who had passed through Pomfret Court. He had been a sufferer from shell-shock and gas, but otherwise sound of limb. One morning, as the Squire was lathering his face, word came to him that John Boyce had gone mad. Without pausing to remove the lather, wearing pyjamas and slippers, the Squire had rushed out of his dressing-room, downstairs, and into a corridor, where Boyce stood at bay, with a valiant V. A. D. in front of him. He had escaped from the ward, and happened to be close to Lionel's sitting-room. Into this room the Squire led Boyce, trying to calm him down. The poor fellow was possessed of suicidal mania. He had lost his chums and his health. He demanded a rifle and permission to go into the garden and "end it." It was piteous to hear him. As yet he had exhibited no violence. But in Lionel's room, where swords were hanging on the wall, Boyce, with his congested eyes on the naked steel, struggled desperately to get hold of a sword. The Squire was a very powerful man, and Boyce undersized, but insanity nearly mastered sanity. Suddenly, Boyce's body relaxed. All violence went out of him. Soon he went back to the saloon, quite himself again. Later, he was taken to Netley Hospital, where he recovered completely. Lady Pomfret said slowly: "Just between ourselves, Geoffrey, is it possible that poor Alfred, slightly wounded in the head, perhaps, is wandering somewhere in France?" The Squire opened his mouth. "My dear Mary, are you hinting at--desertion?" "If he were not himself, like John Boyce?" The Squire had to admit that this was possible. Alfred must be somewhere. Upon him would be his identification-disk. The number of this had been sent to The Hague. "I must see Hamlin." He did. Hamlin told him that Fancy was fluttering between life and death. Under the circumstances, it might be expedient to say nothing about the telegram. To this the Squire warmly agreed. Nobody knew what was in the telegram, except Lady Pomfret and themselves. Nobody would know till Fancy had turned the corner, one way or t'other, poor little dear! Within twenty-four hours all Nether-Applewhite knew. Somebody at the telegraph-office must have babbled. What followed may be imagined. Dick told Tom, and Tom told Harry, till verisimilitude--to quote Gilbert--attached itself to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative. Ultimately, the tale reached the ears of Uncle. Alfred Yellam was a deserter--such a deduction from the telegram might be considered crude, but on that very account likely to be gobbled by gaffers--with a price set upon him, alive or dead. King Garge on his throne knew it.