d, for I shall be with
you as soon as I've fulfilled my Savoy engagement."

An hour later, as he was on his way out, he found Ann waiting for him at
the foot of the stairs.

"I don't want to bother your Lordship."

"You're not bothering me. What is it?"

"I've been thinking that if I wrote the particulars down myself----"

"The particulars! What particulars?"

"About Braithwaite, sir. There were things you wouldn't know or might
leave out. So I thought that if I stated my case myself, it might make
things more sensible-like to your Lordship's friend at the War Office."

"It might. Are those the particulars you have in your hand?"

"Yes, sir. But they're kind of private. I shouldn't like them to be read
by just anybody. That's why---- Perhaps, if your Lordship was seeing
your friend----"

"As it happens," Tabs spoke with a careless air, "I shall be lunching
with him to-day. I can deliver your letter direct."

"Your Lordship is very kind."

"Not in the least, Ann. And remember, whatever happens, that Braithwaite
was brave and he'd expect you to be brave. If you're not---- D'you know
what you'll do? Whether he's alive or dead, you'll let him down."

Her head lifted proudly, despite the tears in her eyes. "No fear of
that, sir. I'll never let my man down."

"That's the way to talk. And don't worry too much. You know the saying
about night always being blackest at the hour before the dawn? If we'd
only all believe that and cheer up----"

He let himself out. As he walked down the Square he tried to stroll
jauntily; probably Ann was watching.

"I could do worse than live up to that advice myself," he thought. Then,
"And so I will, by the Lord Harry."

IV

As he passed through the doors into the Savoy, he consulted his watch;
he was five minutes late. He halted in the middle of the foyer, gazing
round. There was the usual collection of officers on leave or out of
hospital, British, Overseas, American, all of them out for a good time
and debonair. There were the usual rows of expectant girls, wondering
whether their men had forgotten the appointment or whether the fault was
theirs in mistaking the place of rendezvous. Here and there through the
crowd worried and assertive literary individuals wandered, searching for
invariably unpunctual publishers. As though Time pressed behind them
with his scythe, hatchet-faced journalists from Fleet Street were making
a bee-line for the restaurant. In contrast to this