“Stop. Don’t worry about me. Tell me one thing.” He smote the open newspaper with the palm of his hand. “How long has this been going on?” “How long has what been going on?” asked Pillivant, returning. “This war.” “I don’t quite see what you’re driving at,” said Pillivant, puzzled. “I want to know how long this war I’m reading about in the newspaper has been going on.” Pillivant regarded him askance out of his little furtive eyes. He entertained the same suspicion as his wife. “Look here, old man,” he said, taking him by the arm, “that knock on the head’s more serious than you think.” At the noise of a halting car he glanced out of window. “Ah! there’s Dr. Rewsby.” “Never mind the doctor or my head,” cried Baltazar desperately. “Answer my question. How long have we been at war with Germany?” “Why, since August, 1914.” “For the last two years?” “Do you mean to say you’ve been living eight or ten miles off and never heard of the war?” Pillivant stood bewildered. “I never heard of it,” Baltazar answered mechanically, staring past Pillivant at terrifying things. “Well, I’m damned!” said Pillivant, recovering his breath. “I’m just damned. Here, Doctor”—as a spare, grey-headed man was shown into the room—“here is a chap who has never heard of the war.” Baltazar stepped forward. “That’s beside the question, Doctor. All that matters for the moment is my Chinese friend. I had to leave him at the farm unconscious, with, I should think, concussion. And his legs are fractured. We must go at once.” “Excuse me,” said the doctor, “but that wound in your own head wants seeing to. Just a matter of cleaning and strapping. Only five minutes. Please let me have a look at it.” “You can do that afterwards,” said Baltazar. “For God’s sake let us go.” “You’re not fit to go. I won’t allow you to,” replied Dr. Rewsby with suave firmness. Said Baltazar, with the hard gleam in his eyes, “I’m going. It’s my responsibility, not yours. I don’t care what happens to me. But I swear to God I neither wash nor eat nor drink until my friend Quong Ho is brought back, alive or dead. And it’s much better I should go with you than remain here and frighten your excellent wife, Mr. Pillivant, out of her wits.” There was a moment’s silence. The grey-haired doctor glanced at Baltazar out of the corner of a shrewd eye and diagnosed an adamantine obstinacy. “If you refuse to take me with you,” Baltazar added, “I’ll follow you on foot.” The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “As you will. But if anything happens—tetanus, blood-poisoning, collapse—I wash my hands of responsibility. Mr. Pillivant will bear me out. Let us go.” In the hall Pillivant took down from the pegs of an alcove a cap and light overcoat. “You don’t mind sticking on these, do you?” he said to Baltazar. “You’ll need them motoring, and besides, I don’t mind telling you, you’re not looking exactly like a candidate for a beauty show.” “I thank you,” said Baltazar, accepting the proffered raiment.