won't, Billy."

"McClane, she says she won't leave him."

"Then," McClane said, "we must take him now. We'll have to make
room somehow."

(To make room for him--somehow.)

Sutton and the soldier carried the captain out and came back for John's
body. The Belgian sprang forward with eager, subservient alacrity to put
himself at the head of the stretcher, but Sutton thrust him aside.

The Belgian shrugged his shoulders and picked up his rifle with an air of
exaggerated unconcern. Sutton and McClane carried out the stretcher.

Charlotte was following them when the soldier stopped her.

"Mademoiselle--"

He had propped his rifle against the trestles and stood there, groping in
his pocket. A dirty handkerchief, dragged up by his fumbling, hung out by
its corner. All along the sharp crease there was a slender smear of
blood. He looked down at it and pushed it back out of her sight.

He had taken something out of his pocket.

"I will give you this. I found it on the battlefield."

He handed her a small leather pocketbook that was John's. It had her
photograph in it and his, taken together.

* * * * *

They were putting him out of sight, under the hood of the ambulance, and
she waited there when the war correspondent came up.

"_Can_ you tell me the name of the volunteer who's been killed?"

"Conway. John Roden Conway."

"What? _That_ man? The man who raced the Germans into Zele?"

"Yes," she said, "that man."

* * * * *

She was in John's room, packing, gathering together the things she would
have to take to his father. Sutton came to her there.

They had orders to be ready for the retreat any time that night.

Billy had brought her John's wrist watch and cigarette case.

"Billy," she said, "that soldier gave me this."

She showed him the pocketbook.

"What soldier?"

"The one who was with the captain."

"_He_ gave it you?"

"Yes. He said he found it on the battlefield. It must have dropped out of
John's pocket."

"It couldn't have dropped.... I wonder why he kept that."

"But he didn't keep it. He gave it to me."

"He was going to keep it, or he'd have handed it over to me with the
other things."

"Does it matter?"

"Well--"

She thought: "Why can't he leave it alone? They _had_ all his things, his
poor things."

But Sutton was still thoughtful. "I wonder why he gave it you."

"I think he was sorry."

"_Was_ he!"

"Sorry for me, I mean."

Sutton said