ged me home from a public school before I could even
join my cadet corps. You've kept me banging around here with a tutor.
You wouldn't let me go to the university. You've stopped my entering
either of the services. I am nineteen years old and useless. Do you know
what I should do to-morrow if war broke out? Enlist! It's the only thing
left for me."

Mr. Fentolin was shocked.

"My dear boy!" he exclaimed. "You must not talk like that! I am quite
sure that it would break your mother's heart. Enlist, indeed! Nothing of
the sort. You are part of the civilian population of the country."

"Civilian population be d----d!" the boy suddenly cried, white with rage.
"Uncle, forgive me, I have stood all I can bear. If you won't let me go
in for the army--I could pass my exams to-morrow--I'm off. I'll enlist
without waiting for the war. I can't bear this idle life any longer."

Mr. Fentolin leaned a little forward in his chair.

"Gerald!" he said softly.

The boy turned his head, turned it unwillingly. He had the air of
a caged animal obeying the word of his keeper. A certain savage
uncouthness seemed to have fallen upon him during the last few minutes.
There was something almost like a snarl in his expression.

"Gerald!" Mr. Fentolin repeated.

Then it was obvious that there was something between those two, some
memory or some living thing, seldom, if ever, to be spoken of, and yet
always present. The boy began to tremble.

"You're a little overwrought, Gerald," Mr. Fentolin declared. "Sit
quietly in my easy-chair for a few moments. Walt until I have examined
Mr. Dunster's belongings. Ah! Meekins has been prompt, indeed."

There was a stealthy tap at the door. Meekins entered with the small
dressing-case in his hand. He brought it over to his master's chair. Mr.
Fentolin pointed to the floor.

"Open it there, Meekins," he directed. "I fancy that the pocket-book you
are carrying will prove more interesting. We will just glance through
the dressing-case first. Thank you. Yes, you can lay the things upon the
floor. A man of Spartan-like life, I should imagine Mr. Dunster. A
spare toothbrush, though, I am glad to see. Pyjamas of most unattractive
pattern. And what a taste in shirts! Nothing but wearing apparel and
singularly little of that, I fancy."

The dressing-case was empty, its contents upon the floor. Mr. Fentolin
held out his hand and took the pocket-book which Meekins had been
carrying. It was an ordinary morocc