or's imagination, but transcripts from the experiences of some
who passed through it. Added to this, I have, since first writing the
story, paid a Second Visit to the Front, during which I traversed the
country on which Thiepval, Goomecourt, La Boiselle, Contalmaison; and a
score of other towns and villages once stood. Because of this, while
doubtless a military authority could point out technical errors in my
descriptions, I have been able to visualize the scenes of the battle,
and correct such mistakes as I made at the time of writing.

One other word. More than once, the chief character in the narrative
anticipates what has taken place in Russia. While I do not claim to be
a prophet, it is only fair to say that I finished writing the story in
August, 1917, when very few dreamt of the terrible chaos which now
exists in the once Great Empire on which we so largely depended.

JOSEPH HOCKING.

_March_, 1918.

CHAPTER I

THE MAN WITHOUT A PAST

My first meeting with the man whose story I have set out to relate was
in Plymouth. I had been standing in the harbour, hoping that the
friends I had come to meet might yet appear, even although the chances
of their doing so had become very small. Perhaps a hundred passengers
had landed at the historic quay, and practically all of them had rushed
away to catch the London train. I had scrutinized each face eagerly,
but when the last passenger had crossed the gangway I had been
reluctantly compelled to assume that my friends, for some reason or
other, had not come.

I was about to turn away, and go back to the town, when some one
touched my arm. 'This is Plymouth, isn't it?'

I turned, and saw a young man. At that time I was not sure he was
young; he might have been twenty-eight, or he might have been
forty-eight. His face was marked by a thousand lines, while a look
suggestive of age was in his eyes. He spoke to me in an apologetic
sort of way, and looked at me wistfully.

I did not answer him for a second, as his appearance startled me. The
strange admixture of youth and age gave me an eerie feeling.

'Yes,' I replied, 'this is Plymouth. At least, this is Plymouth
Harbour.'

He turned toward the vessel, and looked at it for some seconds, and
then heaved a sigh.

'Have you friends on board?' I asked.

'Oh, no,' he replied. 'I have just left it. I thought I remembered
Plymouth, and so I got off.'

'Where have you come from?'

'From India.'