estily. "What the devil did you do
to him that he didn't tell you, if he was here only two hours before he
left? Why, he must have come to say good-by."

"What did I do?" Sophie whispered. "My God, how was I to know what I was
doing?"

She sat staring at her father. But she was not seeing him, and Carr knew
she did not see him. Some other vision filled those wide-pupiled eyes.
Something that she saw or felt sent a shudder through her. Her mouth
quivered. And suddenly she gave a little, stifled gasp, and covered her
face with her hands.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE LAST BRIDGE

Thompson received his preliminary training in a camp not greatly distant
from his birthplace and the suburban Toronto home where the spinster
aunts still lived. He did not go to see them at first, for two reasons.
Primarily, because he had written them a full and frank account of
himself when he got out of the ruck and achieved success in San
Francisco. Their reply had breathed an open disappointment, almost
hostility, at his departure from the chosen path. They made it clear
that in their eyes he was a prodigal son for whom there would never be
any fatted calf. Secondly, he did not go because there was seldom
anything but short leave for a promising aviator.

Thompson speedily proved himself to belong in that category. There
resided in him those peculiar, indefinable qualities imperative for
mastery of the air. Under able instruction he got on fast, just as he
had got on fast in the Henderson shops. And by the time the first fall
snows whitened the ground, he was ready for England and the finishing
stages of aerial work antecedent to piloting a fighting plane. He had
practically won his official wings.

With his orders to report overseas he received ten days' final leave.
And a sense of duty spurred him to look up the maiden aunts, to brave
their displeasure for the sake of knowing how they fared. There was
little other use to make of his time. The Pacific Coast was too far
away. The only person he cared to see there had no wish to see him, he
was bitterly aware. And nearer at hand circumstances had shot him clear
out of the orbit of all those he had known as he grew to manhood.
Recalling them, he had no more in common with them now than any
forthright man of action has in common with narrow visionaries. It was
not their fault, he knew. They were creatures of their environment, just
as he had been. But he had outgrown all faith in creeds a