"Good, decidedly good! I think we have the Boche cold at last. Internally Germany is on her last legs. Only one thing could have braced her up—a spectacular success last March. As things turned out, that enterprise went off at half-cock—though it gave us a most salutary scare. Now our morale is returning: Foch has the situation well in hand. I fancy he will encourage the enemy to attack a little longer: then, when he has blown a few more swollen salients in our line, come right back at him and puncture them one by one. That and the arrival of the Americans—they are splendid troops, I hear, and are being rushed over at the rate of three hundred thousand a month now—should put the last nail into the Teutonic coffin." The old man paused, and sighed. "Not before it was time, though! Our casualties passed the three million mark the other day, Alan! Still, our tribulations of the past three months may have been worth while. They have taught us two things: firstly, that this blundering, flat-footed old country of ours retains its ancient staying-power; secondly, never to be too cocksure about winning until you have won! What time is he coming?" "Eleven o’clock," I replied, concluding that this lightning reference was to Eric. "Umph! I have to be at Downing Street at twelve. Meanwhile, I shall be in my own inner chamber if you want me. Good-bye! There are cigarettes in that box. Poor little girl!" The double doors closed, and I was left alone. I unstrapped Roy’s valise without much difficulty—my comminuted collar-bone was mending nicely, though I had been warned that I might never be able to wield a salmon-rod again—and emptied out its jumbled contents on to the floor. At the same moment Eric was announced. "Come along," I said, "and get that new tin arm of yours to work. Sort out everything in the shape of papers from that mess, and let us go through them." "Are we looking for anything in particular?" asked Eric, reluctantly setting to work. He always hated drudgery. "Roy’s will." Eric nodded; and laid a heap of documents on the table. There was a tattered sheaf of battalion orders; an old field dispatch book, a number of maps; and a bundle of letters. "I fancy the letters are from Marjorie," I said. "We need not bother to read them." "How is she, by the way?" asked Eric, looking up. "Getting along, I believe." "One would like to show her any little kindness that is possible," Eric continued. "One has sent her flowers, of course, and so on. Is there anything else? I wonder if she would like to see me? It would probably do her good." It was the old touch. I smiled despite myself. "I wouldn’t suggest it at present, if I were you," I said. "She is to have some news broken to her this afternoon." "You mean—?" I nodded. "It’s in the paper this morning," I said. "The War Office telegram we could keep from her; but not that." Eric was silent, and began to turn over the papers.