afed no explanation of his letter. Eric looked
keenly at Agnes and her mother, but their faces and manner betrayed
neither elation nor . . . What else could they betray? he wondered
sinkingly. If Jack were dead, the dinner-party would have been
postponed. They still hoped for him, but their hopes were not hardy
enough to be exposed.

When the men were alone after dinner, Eric's heart missed a beat and he
gripped the arms of his chair. The colonel, after fidgeting with a
decanter and tidying away the remains of two different conversations,
carried his glass to Eric's end of the table and sat beside him, asking
with a smile whether his note had been delivered in time.

"This is between ourselves," he began, leaning back with his legs
stretched out and frowning at the blue flame of a grenade-shaped
cigar-lighter. "We've had news of a kind about Jack." He raised his hand
as Eric tried to speak. "No, my dear boy, that's just what we want to
avoid! Don't congratulate us--_yet_. You see, we've been through the
racket once. . . ."

"You don't know for certain, then?" Eric asked and wondered whether he
was imagining a tremor in his voice.

"No. Let me see, Agnes told you all about the cheque, didn't she? He was
missing in August last year, and the cheque was drawn in October. We now
know that he was alive in December. It appears . . ."

Eric did not hear the next few sentences. Stoically, yet with an
underlying measured jubilance, the old colonel was dragging Jack to
security from the presumption of death two months at a time. Alive in
October, alive in December! Thirteen months ago, eleven months ago. Some
one would have heard of him in February or seen him in April! He was
catching up hand over fist. And one day he would land in England, you
would meet him in the street without warning; as you dawdled through
Berkeley Square, you might see him standing on the door-step of Lord
Crawleigh's house.

"I don't for one moment suppose that this is the only case." Colonel
Waring was commenting.

Eric looked up with an intelligent nod, wondering what he had been told.
Waring, always soldierly and dapper, with a neat care of person which he
had handed on to his children, seemed years fresher and younger
to-night; the liverish tinge of yellow which settled on his face in
cold weather had wholly departed.

"Would you mind giving me the dates again?" said Eric.

"Missing in August; the cheque in October; the row in December. Thi