put in the letter-box. The envelope contained a copy of the
_Gazette_, and a sentence was underlined and adorned with exclamation
marks:

"Royal Fusileers. Second Lieutenant J. M. Trevor resigned his
commission."

* * * * *

It had been a terrible blow to Doggie. The colonel had dealt as gently
as he could in the final interview with him. He put his hand in a
fatherly way on Doggie's shoulder and bade him not take the thing too
much to heart. He--Doggie--had done his best, but the simple fact was
that he was not cut out for an officer. These were merciless times, and
in matters of life and death there could be no weak links in the chain.
In Doggie's case there was no personal discredit. He had always
conducted himself like a gentleman, but he lacked the qualities
necessary for the command of men. He must send in his resignation.

Doggie, after leaving the camp, took a room in a hotel and sat there
most of the day, the mere pulp of a man. His one desire now was to
escape from the eyes of his fellow-men. He felt that he bore the marks
of his disgrace, obvious at a glance. He had been turned out of the army
as a hopeless incompetent; he was worse than a slacker, for the slacker
might have latent qualities he was without.

Presently the sight of his late brother-officers added the gnaw of envy
to his heart-ache. On the third day of his exile he moved into lodgings
in Woburn Place. Here at least he could be quiet, untroubled by
heart-rending sights and sounds. He spent most of his time in dull
reading and dispirited walking.

His failure preyed on his mind. He walked for miles every day, though
without enjoyment. He wandered one evening in the dusk to Waterloo
Bridge and gazed out over the parapet. The river stretched below, dark
and peaceful. As he looked down on the rippling water, he presently
became aware of a presence by his side. Turning his head, he found a
soldier, an ordinary private, also leaning over the parapet.

"I thought I wasn't mistaken in Mr. Marmaduke Trevor," said the soldier.

Doggie started away, on the point of flight, dreading the possible
insolence of one of the men of his late regiment. But the voice of the
speaker rang in his ears with a strange familiarity, and the great
fleshy nose, the high cheekbones, and the little gray eyes in the
weather-beaten face suggested vaguely some one of the long ago. His
dawning recognition amused the soldier.

"Yes, laddie,