he had on his hand nothing more serious than money and
time. I complained that we had not met since the war.

"It's a chance, our meeting to-night," he said, "for I start for Cairo
in the morning. I left the Dardanelles last Wednesday and arrived here
only to-day."

"Wednesday!" I exclaimed. "How could you do it?"

"Torpedo-boat from Moudros to Malta," he explained, "transport to
Marseilles, troop train to Calais, and there our people shot me across
the Channel on a hospital ship. Then I got a special to town."

"You _are_ a swell!" I gasped. "What's your rank?"

"Captain."

That did not explain it.

"What's your job?"

"King's messenger."

It was not yet nine-thirty. The anti-treating law would not let me give
him a drink, but I led him to where one was. For he had restored my
faith. He had replaced on his pedestal my favorite character in fiction.

On returning to London for the fourth time since the war began, but
after an absence of months, one finds her much nearer to the field of
operations. A year ago her citizens enjoyed the confidence that comes
from living on an island. Compared with Paris, where at Claye the enemy
was within fifteen miles, and, at the Forest of Montmorency, within ten
miles, London seemed as far removed from the front as Montreal. Since
then, so many of her men have left for the front and not returned, so
many German air-ships have visited her, and inhumanly assassinated her
children and women, that she seems a part of it. A year ago an officer
entering a restaurant was conscious of his uniform. To-day, anywhere in
London, a man out of uniform, or not wearing a khaki armlet, is as
conspicuous as a scarlet letter-box. A year ago the lamps had been so
darkened that it was not easy to find the keyhole to your street door.
Now you are in luck if you find the street. Nor does that mean you have
lingered long at dinner. For after nine-thirty nowhere in London can you
buy a drink, not at your hotel, not even at your club. At nine-thirty
the waiter whisks your drink off the table. What happens to it after
that, only the waiter knows.

A year ago the only women in London in uniform were the nurses. Now so
many are in uniform that to one visitor they presented the most
surprising change the war has brought to that city. Those who live in
London, to whom the change has come gradually, are probably hardly aware
how significant it is. Few people, certainly few men, guessed that so
many posi