one has sweated one’s guts out over a thing, it’s annoying not to reap the fruit of it. It’s rough luck. It’s—well——” Suddenly self-consciousness returned. He flushed deeply. “I’m awfully sorry, sir. I never meant to bore you like this about myself.” “Bore me!” cried Baltazar. “My dear fellow, you could go on like this for ever and command my most amazed interest. Do go on.” “It’s very kind of you,” stammered the young man, “but—really——” He stopped, confused, embarrassed, ashamed of his boasting. Never had he spoken like that to human being of his incomparable platoon. Never had he unveiled to profane eyes his soldier’s Holy of Holies. Certainly not to his comrades. Not to Dorothy. Not even to Marcelle. What on earth must this stranger, whom he didn’t know from Adam, be thinking of him? He lit a cigarette, before, remembering manners, he offered his case to his visitor. The sense of sentimental braggadocio overwhelmed him, burning him red-hot. He longed with sudden fury to get rid of this uncanny guest with his clear, compelling eyes, which even now steadily regarded him with an inscrutable smile and continued the impossible invitation: “Do go on.” He could no more go on than smite him over the head with his crutch (which he was far more inclined to do) for plucking out the heart of his mystery. If only the man would go! But he sat there, strong, urbane, maddeningly kind. He hated him. Yet he felt himself under his influence. From the man seemed to emanate a suggestion of friendship, interest, control, which his sensitive English spirit vehemently repudiated. He heard him say: “The old French blood in your veins has suddenly come up against the English.” He started. “What do you know about my French ancestry?” “Your father was very proud of his Huguenot descent.” “My father!” cried Godfrey, his nerves on edge. “I’m rather fed up with my father. I wish he had never been born.” Baltazar rose. “I’m sorry,” said he courteously, “to have distressed you. Believe me, it was far from my intention.” Godfrey stared at him for a second, and passed his hand across his eyes. “It’s for me to apologize. I’m afraid I’ve been rude. Please don’t go.” But Baltazar stood smiling, holding out his hand. Now that the man was going Godfrey realized the enormity of his own discourtesy. He looked around as if seeking some outlet for the situation. And then, as if in answer to a prayer, at the end of the hall appeared the passing, grey-clad figure of a guardian angel. “Sister!” he cried. Marcelle halted, smiled, and advanced towards him. “Sister,” said he, “this is Mr. James Burden. You ought to know each other. You both knew my father.” Baltazar turned. And for a few speechless seconds he and Marcelle stared into each other’s eyes. CHAPTER XIII GODFREY half rose from his chair, more than puzzled by the mutual recognition. “You said you didn’t know Mr. Burden,” he cried.