He began again to wonder concerning this newly discovered son, strove to visualize him. A broad, upstanding fellow, like himself. Fairer—he got that from his mother. A fine, soldierly figure in khaki. But only a boy—just twenty. And he had thrown everything to the winds on the outbreak of war and had been fighting in France—that child—for two years. He drew a sharp breath, as a sudden thought smote him. The boy might have been killed. Apparently he was still alive. Otherwise Sheepshanks would surely have heard. But supposing—supposing. . . . He shivered at the thought of it. Half an hour, an hour—he was unconscious of time—passed. Then the door opened and Sheepshanks appeared, followed by a short-bearded man in clerical tweeds. “A bit of luck. I found Crosby in. I’ve told him everything, and he has been kind enough to come along.” Said Dr. Crosby a while later: “I have brought with me the boy’s last letter—only a week old. Perhaps you would like to see it.” Baltazar stretched out an impatient hand. This thing so essentially personal, the first objective token of his son’s existence, affected him deeply. The words swam before his eyes. He turned to the end to see the signature. His thumb against it, he held out the paper to Sheepshanks, and said in a shaking voice: “That’s my handwriting. He has the same trick of the ‘B’ and the ‘z.’” The letter informed the master that he was still at Churton Towers, near Godalming; that the stump obstinately refused to heal completely, owing perhaps to the original gangrene; that he hoped they would not chuck him out of the Army, because, with a brand new foot, he could be useful in hundreds of ways; but that, if they did, he would come up and continue to read for his degree. “May I keep this, Crosby?” asked Baltazar; and, permission given, he folded it up and put it in his pocket. Then he turned to Sheepshanks. “Why didn’t you tell me at first what had happened?” “My dear fellow,” said Sheepshanks, “I only heard he had been wounded. I was unaware of details. That’s why I went at once to Crosby. In these days one must be discreet.” “Yes, no doubt,” said Baltazar, absently. He paced the room for a few moments. Then halting: “I must see this son of mine. But I must see him in my own way. Will you do me a favour not to let him know of my reappearance until I send you word?” “Certainly,” said Dr. Crosby. “Thanks,” said he. He walked to and fro, his head full of the tragedy of this maimed young life. He looked from one unemotional face to the other. Their attitude was incomprehensible. Crosby, before showing him the letter, had spoken of wound and amputation in the most matter-of-fact, unfeeling way. Suddenly he burst out indignantly: