fools," said Thorpe soberly. "The staff would not
have turned me out, I'm sure of that. I was doing good work, Simmy," he
went on rapidly, eagerly, "even though I do say it myself. Everybody was
satisfied, I'm sure. Night and day,--all the time,--mind you, and I was
standing up under it better than any of them. But, you see, it wasn't the
staff that did it. It was the poor devil of a soldier out there in the
trenches. They found out who I was. Newspapers, of course. Well, that
tells the story. They were afraid of me. But I am not complaining. I do
not blame them. God knows it was hard enough for them to face death out
there at the front without having to think of--well, getting it anyhow if
they fell into my hands. I--But there's no use speaking of it, Simmy. I
wanted you to know why I got out, and I want Anne to know. As for the
rest, let them think I was sick or--cowardly if they like."

Simmy was silent for a long time. He said afterwards that it was all he
could do to keep from crying as he looked at the pale, gaunt face of his
friend and listened to the verdict of the French soldiers.

"I don't see the necessity for telling Anne," he said, at last, pulling
rather roughly at his little moustache. They were seated at one of the
broad windows in Simmy's living-room, drinking in the cool air that came
up from the west in advance of an impending thunderstorm. The day had been
hot and stifling. "No sense in letting her know, old man. Secret between
you and me, if you don't--"

"I'd rather she knew," said Thorpe briefly. "In fact, she will have to
know."

"What do you mean?"

Thorpe was staring out over the Park, and did not answer. Simmy found
another cigarette and lighted it, scorching his fingers while furtively
watching his companion's face.

"How is Anne, Simmy?" demanded Thorpe abruptly. There was a fierce, eager
light in his eyes, but his manner was strangely repressed. "Where is she?"

Simmy took a deep breath. "She's well and she's at home."

"You mean,--down there in the old--"

"The old Thorpe house. I don't know what's got into the girl, Brady. First
she swears she won't live in the house, and then she turns around,--just
like that,--and moves in. Workmen all over the place, working overtime and
all that sort of thing,--with Anne standing around punchin' 'em with a
sharp stick if they don't keep right on the job. Top to bottom,--renovated,
redecorated, brightened up,--wouldn't recognise the place as--